“I can outshoot a dozen Copts,” Desquer said confidently. “We’re going straight in. We’ll find a guide—make him guide us. If anyone gets in our way, he’ll regret it. We’re going in, smash the machine, and come out again. And then—I’ll find out which of you has the Earth Star.” Tony didn’t reply. He went on, his mind desperately searching for a plan. But it seemed hopeless. There was no way out. Finally only a broad plaza separated them from the pyramid. At its edge the trio paused. Desquer said, “We’ll skirt around to that building—see it? It juts into the open space ... I don’t see any guards, but there may be some.” The three were standing in the shadow at the corner of a tall stone obelisk. And without warning a score of figures dropped down upon them, in utter silence—and with murderous fury. Desquer’s guns were in his hands. The snarling crackle of the carbon-pistols rapped out, awakening echoes in the dead city. Tony could not see the commander; he was borne down under a press of bodies, struggling furiously. Beside him he heard Jimmy cursing and striking out weakly. The Atlantean priests were not using their ray-projectors, perhaps because they depended on weight of numbers. That was their mistake! * * * * * It was Desquer’s fearless savagery turned the tide of battle. His guns bellowed without ceasing. Thrice he went down, rising at last a gargoylish, hideous figure, dripping with blood from a dozen wounds, his bare scalp shining blackly in the red light. One by one and two by two he killed, mercilessly, viciously, finally clubbing his pistol to dispose of the last of the priests, who was atop Tony. “Can’t waste ammunition,” he growled. “Get up! Both of you! Hurry!” Tony stood up, Jimmy beside him. A few of the priests _had_ escaped, he saw, and were even now fleeing toward the temple. Desquer raised his gun, hesitated, and lowered it. “Come on!” Tony stared. Scores—no, more than a hundred priests were pouring from the pyramid, forming a phalanx massing itself to guard the threshold. In the lead stood Thotmes, his spade beard making him easily recognizable. The fleeing priests joined their companions, and the little army stood in silence. “Not using their ray-projectors,” Tony said. “Guess they’re good only at short range.” Desquer snarled, “Come on!” His guns snouted forward, urging his captives on. Slowly they moved across the plaza. The commander fired. A priest fell, screaming. The ranks closed in, hiding him from view. Again and again Desquer fired. His gun clicked on an empty chamber; he emptied the other one. Then he reached for his belt—and Tony heard him curse. “_Dieu!_ Those damned Copts! The priests—they got my ammunition belt in the fight!” Tony stopped, turned. Desquer was standing straddle-legged, the carbon-pistols, futile without coal, pointing at the priests. His face was set into rock-hard lines.