“I never touch the things,” Art denied fiercely. “Anyhow. Not often,” he amended.
“If we can’t shoot, then why did you buy the guns?” Ross wanted to know.
“Fair enough. You can shoot — but you have to be certain it’s self-defense; I’ll take those guns back to the shop before I’ll have a bunch of wild men running around with blood in their eyes and an itch in their trigger fingers. The other use for the guns is to throw a scare into any more prowlers. You can shoot, but shoot where he isn’t — unless he shoots first.”
“Okay.”
“Suits.”
“I hope he shoots first!”
“Any other ideas?”
“Just one,” Art answered. “Suppose our pal cut our power line. We’ve got everything on it — light, radio, even the squawk box. He could cut the line after we went to sleep and loot the whole place without us knowing it.”
Cargraves nodded. “I should have thought of that.” He considered it. “You and I will string a temporary line right now from the ship’s batteries to your squawk box. Tomorrow we’ll hook up an emergency lighting circuit.” He stood up. “Come on, Art. And you guys get busy. Study hour.”
“Study hour?” Ross protested. “Tonight? We can’t keep our minds on books — not tonight.”
“You can make a stab at it,” the doctor said firmly. “Guys have been known to write books while waiting to be hanged.”
The night passed quietly. Ross and Doc were down at the ship early the next morning, leaving Art and Morrie to work out an emergency lighting circuit from the battery of the car. Doc planned to have everything ready for the thorium when it arrived. He and Ross climbed into the rocket and got cheerfully to work. Cargraves started laying out tools, while Ross, whistling merrily off key, squeezed himself around the edge of the shield. Cargraves looked up just in time to see a bright, bright flash, then to be hit in the face by a thunderous pressure which threw him back against the side of the ship.
Chapter 7: “WE’LL GO IF WE HAVE TO WALK”
Art was shaking his shoulder. “Doc!” he was pleading. “Doc! Wake up-are you hurt bad?”
“Ross . . .” Cargraves said vaguely. “It’s not Ross; it’s Art.”
“But Ross — how’s Ross? Did it, did it kill him?”
“I don’t know. Morrie’s with him.”
“Go find out.”
“But you’re-”
“Go find out, I said!” Whereupon he passed out again.
When he came to a second time, Art was bending over him. “Uncle,” he said, “the thorium has come. What do we do?”
Thorium. Thorium? His head ached, the word seemed to have no meaning.
“Uh, I’ll be out in a . . . what about Ross? Is he dead?”
“No, he’s not dead.”
“How bad is he hurt?”
“It seems to be his eyes, mostly. He isn’t cut up any, but he can’t see. What’ll I tell them about the thorium, Uncle?”
“Oh, hang the thorium! Tell them to take it back.”
“What?”
He tried to get up, but he was too dizzy, too weak. He let his head fall back and tried to collect his spinning thoughts.
“Don’t be a dope, Art,” he muttered peevishly. “We don’t need thorium. The trip is off, the whole thing was a mistake. Send it back — it’s poison.” His eyes were swimming; he closed them. “Ross . . .” he said.
He was again brought back to awareness by the touch of hands on his body. Morrie and Art were gently but firmly going over him. “Take it easy, Doc,” Morrie warned him.
“How’s Ross?” “Well . . .” Morrie wrinkled his brow. “Ross seems all right, except for his eyes. He says he’s all right.”
“But he’s blind?”
“Well, he can’t see.”
“We’ve got to get him to a hospital.” Cargraves sat up and tried to stand up. “Ow!” He sat down suddenly.
“It’s his foot,” said Art.
“Let’s have a look at it. Hold still, Doc.” They took his left shoe off gently and peeled back the sock. Morrie felt it over. “What do you think, Art?”
Art examined it. “It’s either a sprain or a break. We’ll have to have an X-ray.”