The chief stronghold of the Cometeers, where they guard that secret, is down somewhere near the center of the planet.
Kay has been trying to guide us to it.” Bob Star stood frowning at the grave commander, his brief hope already crumbling.
“The information is very useful now!” he muttered bitterly. “When we are prisoners, unarmed and condemned!
When the weapon that can kill Stephen Oreo is hidden in the middle of an armored planet, fifteen thousand miles beneath us, and guarded with all the science of the Cometeers!”
Bob Star was never satisfied with his part in the rebellion of the prisoners.
True, the plan of action—if anything so vague, so wild, so desperately hopeless could be called a plan—was his.
And it was he, at last, who led the rush from the hold.
But those five mad seconds never contented him.
Hector Valdin had gone with him through the weary apathy of the prison-hold.
He had introduced Bob Star to his fellow miners, his old neighbors, simply as John Star’s son. And Bob Star had touched them with the greatness of the System, the old glory of mankind.
He stirred them with the great names of John Star and Commander Kalam; of Hal Samdu and Giles Habibula; of Aladoree, the beloved keeper of the peace.
They rose to follow the bugle of those names.
And Bob Star had come at last to Giles Habibula, demanding:
“Giles, can you open the door?”
“Why, lad?” The old man started.
The yellow moon of his face went ashen.
“In the precious name of life, why should I open the door?”
“Can you?” Bob insisted.
“That monstrous globe is watching,” whispered the old man. “And there are fearful hordes above—”
“But you can?”
“Ah, the sad fate of genius!”
He shook his head, dolefully.
“Yes, lad, I can open the door.
I watched the working of the lock as they let us in, and I’ve been looking at the thing for hours since, until I can see every part within the case.
It’s a combination affair, with disks and tumblers, worked by sliding rods.
The design is good— though not good enough to baffle poor old Giles Habibula.
But why—?”
Jay Kalam, with whom Bob Star had discussed the piece of reckless audacity he called a plan, said soberly:
“Do it, Giles.”
“Not yet!” The old man shuddered.
“Not beneath the eye of that fearful globe—”
“We’ll try to distract it,” Bob Star promised.
He made a sign to the gaunt, gray-faced miner.
Hector Valdin lunged toward Kay Nymidee, grasping for her, as they had planned.
She screamed, stumbling toward Bob Star.
Bob Star swung at his haggard ally.
Others rushed to circle them.
A noisy riot swept up and down the ramp.
Meanwhile, Giles Habibula crept trembling to the massive lock at the top of the ramp.
Shouting, Jay Kalam was pushing his way toward the center of the milling throng.
And gigantic Hal Samdu was fighting now, with such a grim and silent earnestness as if he forgot it was make-believe.
And Giles Habibula came lumbering at last down the ramp, gasping for Bob Star.
His face was yellow-green, glistening with sweat.
“Lad!” he wheezed.
“Lad, the door is unlocked.
You may go through, if you are such a fool—”
Bob Star led the cheering mob up the ramp.
He reached the massive red grating, and his clear voice called a ringing command.
Magically, then, the mob became a terrible and desperate army.
Hal Samdu and Hector Valdin helped him fling aside the unlocked grating.