The oxygen tanks were quickly distributed. Rod gave eight Survivors rapid instructions. “I’ll give you ten minutes to get in position,” he finished, “Williamson and I will watch from the top heights.” By the time Rod and Williamson had taken their position high on the mountain-side the staggering human had won to within a hundred yards of the final slope. The flames were circling--darting forward--retreating--only to renew the attack. They were so intent on their prey they missed the helpless second figure--until he set up a hoarse scream for help. When the flames realized there was a second quarry they hesitated--but not for long. If anything, the second man was farther gone than the one who was now scrambling up the slope. The new quarry was bent over a cylinder of some sort. His legs kicked feebly. His arms were jerking spasmodically as he tried to tear his suit fastenings. Almost half the flames raced to him. Tentacles outstretched, they swooped--into the oblivion of hissing oxygen. A few tried to escape. Another human stepped from behind a concealing boulder. Rod watched him play an oxygen stream over them like a pest-sprayer. The flames which had remained behind reacted instinctively. They retreated. Their vanguard exploded before two more humans who rose from the sand-misted shadows of a narrow gorge in the plateau. They broke then. They fled in wild disorder in the only direction open. Now, four men rose from concealed positions to bar their way. The annihilation was complete! On the heights above, Williamson was dancing a war jig. “We wowed ’em, Rod,” he screeched. “We wowed ’em. Look at that grey powder! Look at it! Them’s dead tetrarchs, me boy.” He pounded Rod on the back in complete forgetfulness of the glowing doom. “When we get back to earth I’m gonna marry me a nice girl. And I’m gonna throw pop corn parties every night in the week. And I’m gonna invite all the neighbors. And when the kernels go ‘Pop’ I’m gonna say, ‘That’s what we did to the tetrarchs.’” He was still pounding Rod’s back when Bunny came puffing up. “You’d better come in a hurry, boss,” he said, “that guy down there wants to talk to you and he ain’t got much time left.” Rod frowned. “Lets go,” he said briefly. He ran down the slope to the inert figure that lay like a blade of mown grass at the base. When the others arrived he was kneeling by the fallen slave, supporting him by the head and shoulders. There was no mistaking the ghastly pallor spreading over the waxen face. His breathing was jerky--almost spasmodic as he whispered, “And then they worked on Rickter. They had grown suspicious when things started to disappear ... when more slaves escaped and never got caught.” His breathing paused. The skin on the man’s forehead lost its waxy pallor. It became dry--harsh--yellow-tinged.