"Good Heaven! How many of 'em _are_ there in the trees?" shouted he. "Try the Pulverite!" cried Beatrice. "Maybe you might hit a branch!" Stern flung down the gun. To the corner where the vials were standing he ran. Up he caught one--he dared not take two lest they should by some accident strike together. "Here--here, now, take _this!_" he bellowed. And from the window, aiming at a pine that stood seventy-five feet away--a pine whose branches seemed to hang thick with the Horde's blowgun-men--he slung it with all the strength of his uninjured arm. Into the gloom it vanished, the little meteorite of latent death, of potential horror and destruction. "If it hits 'em, they'll think we _are_ gods, after all, what?" cried the engineer, peering eagerly. But for a moment, nothing happened. "Missed it!" he groaned. "If I only had my right arm to use now, I might--" Far below, down there a hundred feet beneath them and out a long way from the tower base, night yawned wide in a burst of hellish glare. A vast conical hole of flame was gouged in the dark. For a fraction of a second every tree, limb, twig stood out in vivid detail, as that blue-white glory shot aloft. All up through the forest the girl and Stern got a momentary glimpse of little, clinging Things, crouching misshapen, hideous. Then, as a riven and distorted whirl burst upward in a huge geyser of annihilation, came a detonation that ripped, stunned, shattered; that sent both the defenders staggering backward from the window. Darkness closed again, like a gaping mouth that shuts. And all about the building, through the trees, and down again in a titanic, slashing rain fell the wreckage of things that had been stone, and earth, and root, and tree, and living creatures--that had been--that now were but one indistinguishable mass of ruin and of death. After that, here and there, small dark objects came dropping, thudding, crashing down. You might have thought some cosmic gardener had shaken his orchard, his orchard where the plums and pears were rotten-ripe. "_One!_" cried the engineer, in a strange, wild, exultant voice. CHAPTER XXIX THE BATTLE ON THE STAIRS Almost like the echo of his shout, a faint snarling cry rose from the corridor, outside. They heard a clicking, sliding, ominous sound; and, with instant comprehension, knew the truth. "They've got up, some of them--somehow!" Stern cried. "They'll be at our throats, here, in a moment! Load! _Load!_ You shoot--_I'll_ give 'em Pulverite!" No time, now, for caution. While the girl hastily threw in more cartridges, Stern gathered up all the remaining vials of the explosive. These, garnered along his wounded arm which clasped them to his body, made a little bristling row of death. His left hand remained free, to fling the little glass bombs. "Come! Come, meet 'em--they mustn't trap us, here!" And together they crept noiselessly into the other room and thence to the corridor-door. Out they peered.