I choked back a gasp as I saw what the tow headed mutt was doing. He had the tweezers he'd hid that afternoon, and was using them to cut through his bonds!
It was slow work, and I found it hard to keep my eyes away from Shane as he painstakingly accomplished it. The mustached snake was too stupid to notice what was going on, or Shane was too clever going about it. At any rate, a wink from my buddy told me at last that he was free, insofar as his arms were concerned.
I edged over close to Shane and somehow managed to take the tweezers from him. Then, sweating star drops, I went to work on my own bonds. After what seemed to be centuries, I had them severed to the point where they'd break with a twist of my wrists.
Working on our leg wrappings was more difficult. And only when the mustached snake's attention strayed away from us, were we able to proceed in loosening them. Fortunately, our legs had been tied in a fashion that pulled them up behind our back. We were able to use our free paws in unknotting them.
We waited our chance, and when the mustached snake stepped up to the pilot's instrument panel, we jumped to our feet with a whoop and a holler. I'd picked out something to grab. A duralloy fire extinguisher. It worked beautifully as I caught the surprised fat slob over the head with it.
Shane had grabbed a planerium grappling iron, and the work he did on the mustached little snake was swift and unpleasant. It was a wonder that the guy was still alive as he lay in a bloody heap on the floor. It had been the little guy who held their guns, and I got the satisfaction of stamping a foot down on Varda's hand when she grabbed for the guns as they hit the floor.
She fought like a wildcat, and by the time I'd subdued her and trussed her up—you can't shoot a wench, at least I can't—Shane had slipped in behind the pilot wheel vacated by the fat slob. I felt like yelling for joy. The tables were now thoroughly turned!
Shane, at the controls, echoed what I was exultantly thinking at that instant.
"Corporal Cork," he shouted happily, "we have not only taken the situation well in hand, but we have vindicated ourselves to boot by the capture of two enemy spies of some sort, plus this wench accomplice of theirs!"
And with this he swung the nose of the space ship around in an arc that almost threw my heart through my boots.
"We're heading back, Corporal. Heading back like the heroes we really are!"
SOME very unladylike language from Varda interrupted him.
"Stuff a gag in her mouth, Corporal Cork," he ordered. "I can't stand such a disillusioning picture of fair womanhood."
"Very well, Sergeant Shane," I answered, happy to oblige. In another minute Varda was thoroughly silenced.
"We will land, in the best Marine tradition, on the runways of the F.S.S. Western Hemisphere," Shane announced. "There we can turn our prisoners over to Old Ironpants personally."
"An excellent idea," I said. And Shane throttled into a full blasting rocket speed. It was well over an hour and a half, but it seemed only seconds later that we were easing down on Venus, while Shane unerringly headed for the runway decks of the F.S.S. Western Hemisphere. We had a full turn out on the main deck of the battle wagon when we climbed out of the
