ntrid heaved
mightily from the force of some new concussion within, and threw Blaine
scrambling.

Crawling now, feeling his way over the shuddering surface, he saw a dim
huddled mass there in the pelting rain of ice. Moving, it was! Two
bloated figures, one large and one small, rolling over and over: Ulana
and the Llott who had chased her! He was there in one mad scramble and
had dragged the fellow from her; was astride the rubbery inflated
covering, clawing and tearing. The thing collapsed and went flat
between his knees. He saw the mist of moisture-laden escaping air; felt
the quick swelling and the jarring collapse as internal organs exploded
from the atmospheric pressure inside the brute's body. Nauseated, he
crawled away from the dead, grotesque-looking figure.

Ulana was on her knees, endeavoring to get to her feet. She had not
been harmed, thanks to his good fortune in finding them. But where was
the RX8? In the awful white silence, broken only by the eery patter of
the ice particles on helmets and fabric, all sense of direction was
lost. Through the double thickness of helmet lenses he looked into
Ulana's eyes: for the last time, he thought.

* * * * *

And then the white shroud lifted once more. The ship was there, not a
hundred yards distant! Tommy still battled one of the Llotta,
desperately circling the wary, grotesquely bobbing figure and swinging
those terrible slashing hooks. The other was down, almost covered with
white. Out of the picture, that one, but the remaining Llott was giving
his friend a tough time of it. With the girl clinging to him, their
arms hooked fast, he scuttled over the treacherous, ice-powdered
copper. He had to get there quickly, and help.

Tom Farley slipped and fell heavily. The Llott was on him in a flash
and they struggled madly there in splashings of white that hid them
from view for a moment. Then one of them was up and the other lay
still, a surprisingly shrunken and motionless figure.

The victor was coming at him then, bloated arms lashing out in swift,
vicious circles. He had got Tommy, the damned swine! Blaine met his
rush with a flying tackle that brought him down crashing. He lay still,
the devil, knocked out probably by the metal helmet contacting with his
skull. With arm poised for that slashing swing that would send him into
eternity, Blaine peered through the lens of his helmet. His heart
stopped beating and the uprais