* * *

Blake's eyes were on Harror's face. The giant's fists were clenched, his
lips tight and cruel. He was searching for something.

"All right," Harror growled finally. "What's the game?"

"Nothing," Blake answered shrewdly. "We were waiting for you to murder
us, and got impatient, that's all."

Two of the guards left and Harror swung to his feet. He was leering.

Blake watched the remaining guards from the corner of his eye. O'Toole
was still standing quietly by the door, alert and ready. He saw Blake's
eye on his, and winked deliberately. O'Toole, Blake decided, was ready
any time.

"You were right on the murder angle," Harror admitted. "Pretty smart,
ain't you?"

"About some things," Blake admitted. "I don't fall for everything I read
in the papers. I know you used a hidden mono track to get us here, and
that you'll probably send us back over it into a nice deep canyon, when
you have everything you want off the train."

Harror leaned over silently and spat into his face. Blake saw red. With
a lightning thrust he smashed the lamp from the table and plunged the
room into blackness. From O'Toole's side of the room a ray gun belched
fire, but Blake was already out of range. He heard a cry of pain and
realized that Harror had caught the flame on the arm. Harror, outlined
in the light of the ray was almost on top of him.

From the spot where O'Toole had been, Blake heard a sullen thud and a
long groan of pain. Dodging from Harror's plunging fall, Blake knew
O'Toole was doing his part. He grasped the edge of the table and tried
to thrust it in front of Harror. The man swore loudly and kicked it
away. There was a slit of light coming from under the door.

In its path, Blake saw Harror standing above him, a hairy fist
descending like a ton of lead. He twisted his face around, sensed
Harror's blow miss him by a fraction of an inch. Diving low he hit
Harror a body blow with his shoulder and the giant doubled in pain.
Blake swung upward before Harror could regain his balance, and set his
fist crashing into Harror's face. The giant swung backward like an
enraged elephant. Two more flashes of electro-fire went spurting over
his head and O'Toole started to sing in a loud, off-key voice.

"Slug 'em," O'Toole chanted. "It's the Irish that are in this mess
tonight."

In the darkness, Blake grinned painfully. His lip was split and
bleeding. His arm ached from the forceful contact with Harror's jaw.