"A helmet and a DeLameter apiece. Get them on quick. Now help me buckle this--thanks. Miss Jackie, stay back there, clear of our feet. You, man, lie down here in the doorway. Keep your ray-gun outside, and stick your head out just barely far enough to see--no farther." A spot of light appeared in a port, then another. Cloud's weapon flamed briefly. "I thought so. They do their serious radiation work somewhere else. The air right now, though, I imagine, is bad. It won't be long now. Do I hear something?" "Somebody's coming, but suppose it's the Patrol?" "They'll be in armor, so a few blasts won't hurt 'em. Maybe the zwilniks will be in armor, too--if so we'll have to duck--but I imagine that they'll throw the first ones in here just as they are." They did. Graves, or whoever was directing things, rushed his nearest guards into action, hoping to reach B Twelve before anyone else could. But as that first detachment rounded the corner Cloud's DeLameter flamed white, followed quickly by Ryder's, and in those withering blasts of energy the zwilniks died. The respite was, however, short. The next men to arrive wore armor against which the DeLameters raved in vain, but only for a second. "Back!" Cloud ordered, and swung the heavy door as the attackers' beams swept past. It could not be locked, but it could be welded solidly to the jamb, which operation was done with dispatch, if not with neatness. "I hope they come in time." The girl's low voice carried a prayer. Was this brief flare of hope false--would not only she and her Bob, but also their would-be savior die? "That other noise--suppose that's the Patrol?" It was not really a noise--the cell was sound-proof--it was an occasional jarring vibration of the entire structure. "I wouldn't wonder." Cloud looked around the room as he spoke. "Heavy stuff--semi-portables, perhaps. Well, let's see if we can't find some more junk like that trap-door to stick onto that patchwork. Jackie, you might grab that bucket and throw water. Every little bit helps and it's getting mighty hot. Careful! Don't scald yourself." The heavy metal of the door was bright-to-dull red over half its area and that area was spreading rapidly. The air of the room grew hot and hotter. Bursts of live steam billowed out and, condensing, fogged the helmets and made the atmosphere even more oppressive. The glowing metal dulled, brightened, dulled. The prisoners could only guess at the intensity of the battle being waged without. They could follow its progress only by the ever-shifting temperature of the barrier which the zwilniks were so suicidally determined to beam down. Then a blast of bitterly cold air roared from the ventilator, clearing away the gas in seconds, and the speaker came to life.