Out of the darkness, Chan watched the men creeping forward.
Narrowed eyes fearfully searching, proton guns uneasily ready.
He gulped and tried to still the shuddering dread in him.
“You are afraid of me,” he called.
“Every one of you.
I can see the sweat of fear on all your faces.
I can see fear crawling in your eyes.
Well, you had better be afraid.
But it is the Basilisk you ought to fear, and not the man his monstrous tricks have loaded down with suspicion.
I, too, am hunting the Basilisk. And now I have some information.
I can help you—”
The great voice of Hannas cut him off:
“You’ve got too much information, Derron! But it is going to die with you.
Get him, men!”
And the men in yellow slipped forward again.
Chan Derron caught his breath, and snatched one of the mocking clay bricks off the racks.
And his fingers gripped the little black control spindle of the geopellor, at the end of the cable that ran down his sleeve.
“If you can!” he shouted.
“But you won’t get your treasure, Mr. Hannas!
Your vault is stripped clean.
Here’s what the Basilisk left!”
He flung the little brick, so that it shattered against the face of the door.
Fragments pelted the men beyond.
Half a dozen blinding jets leapt, as nervous ringers contracted. One man, sobbing an oath of fear, dropped his weapon and ran—until an officer’s swift beam cut him down.
“Empty?” came the stricken voice of Hannas.
“Empty—”
This was the moment.
Chan filled his lungs with breath—for the speed of the geopellor made breathing almost impossible.
He squeezed and twisted the control handle.
And the compact little unit on his shoulders lifted him. It flung him toward the wall of guns.
Bright proton guns flung up to stop him, but their deadly violet lances stabbed behind him.
He was already driving bullet-like down one of the long corridors beneath the gaming halls.
“After him, you cowards—”
The great roaring voice of Caspar Hannas was whisked away, upon the shrieking wind.
But the rays could overtake him.
Thin lines of fire cut straight to the armored wall ahead.
One hissed very near, and ionized air brought Chan a stunning shock.
Teeth gritted, fighting the darkness in his reeling brain, he twisted the little spindle back and forth.
The geopellor flung him from side to side, in a swift zigzag, with a savage straining force.
Greater danger awaited him at the long hall’s end.
Once he stopped to seek an exit, he would make a fair target for the men behind—and the first bull’s-eye worth half a million dollars.
He bent his twisting flight toward the floor, and blinked his streaming, wind-blinded eyes.
And he saw a small door swing open ahead.
A huge man hi white rilled it completely, carrying a bag of potatoes.
Chan checked his velocity a little—but perilously little—and aimed his bullet flight for the fat cook’s burden.
He saw the man’s eyes begin to stare and widen, and he set his own body for the impact.
The geodesic field shielded him somewhat, but it was still a dazing blow.
The cook was hurled flat in the doorway.
And Chan, beyond him, came into a kitchen bigger than he had ever dreamed of. Acres of stoves; endless white conveyor tables loaded with dishes and food.
All but deserted, now, for the New Moon was being emptied, by fear of the Basilisk.