thought Vans, and his left hand shot out with a speed that looked impossible for one so slow and heavy. The Martian fell, his neck broken, just as the threadray pistol touched Vans' chest.
"That was the closest thing in my life yet," thought Vans. "What is this funny pistol with the tiny ray that burns?"
He experimented with it, pressing buttons, and gasped in amazement as he saw a house on the other side of the street, cut in halves diagonally, collapsed in thunder and smoke.
"Burning ray," he decided. "Hand generator. Dirty way of fighting."
He wondered why it was so cold to handle, and why it started no fires. Things melted away in smoke and dust, but no fire broke out when the ray was turned off. Cold fire, he thought. Queer.
SUDDENLY he came on a triple fence of barbed wire. Inside the wire were Vans' neighbors from Selketh. Above them the ray-producer, like a searchlight, pointed down. As yet it had produced no apparent change in them. They wondered why they were kept here, obviously subjected to the effects of some mysterious force.
A cold rage rose in Vans' throat. His sparring partners were there, his chums, and a Martian girl he was sweet on, standoffish though she was. He would show her what sort of a fellow Vans Holors was.
It would not be easy, though, to get the better of over a dozen guards at the gate in the wire. The situation needed careful handling.
He put on a broad smile, grinning all over his face. But another man of his own profession would have seen the bleak, stony look in his eyes, and would have known that the grin was a mask. He was going forward to kill, and against odds. His hands were empty, and he walked with a careless swagger. Within the wire fence the people of Selketh whispered to one another, "It is Vans!" Those who were fans of his waited confidently for a miracle. Others, knowing his reputation for poor intelligence, looked for him to be killed.
Vans knew the faith of his fans. He would not let them down, he resolved. He hoped the girl was watching. She might change her opinion of him, even if he could not keep pace with her friends. Silent, tongue-tied Vans would show her he had his uses, after all.
"Hey, chums!" he called to the soldiers. "There's been great fighting, back there. Great fun we're having. I killed a dozen apes myself. Don't you find it slow here?"
The officers in charge gaped in bewilderment at this amazing soldier. Never before had a man of Bommelsmeth talked in this way. What rank was the fellow? According to his queer assortment of misplaced badges, the burly soldier in the ill-fitting uniform held a dozen ranks at once.
"Who are you? What are you doing?" an officer snapped.
"I have an important message for you," said Vans, smoothly. "Straight from the big chief."
"I'll have you shot, calling our emperor the big chief," barked the officer. "Give your message."
Quite slowly and casually. Vans put his hand in his pocket. His huge hand covered the threadray pistol completely. The officer tried to snatch the supposed message from him. Vans avoided his hands, brought the ray pistol level with the officer's nose.
"Read that! Smell that!" said Vans, in another, exultant voice.
FOR a fraction of an instant the officer knew that he was straight into
