they paused before the first door.
"We got some wise guys," the man who was covering Blake shouted. "Want to give them a going over, Chief?"
There was a moment of silence. Then Grudge Harror's heavy voice said from beyond the door.
"Bring them in."
Blake kicked the door open and strode into a small, mercury-lighted room. There was a single chair and the desk behind which Harror was seated. His huge arms rested across its top. His expression darkened as he saw Blake.
"What's he been up to?"
The guard stepped close to Harror and pocketed his weapon.
"He was shouting his head off," he said. Then, in an almost apologetic voice he added, "The Irishman insisted on coming along."
Blake's eyes were on Harror's face.
The giant's fists were clenched, his lips tight and cruel. He was searching for something.
"All right," Harror growled finally. "What's the game?"
"Nothing," Blake answered shrewdly. "We were waiting for you to murder us, and got impatient, that's all."
Two of the guards left and Harror swung to his feet. He was leering.
Blake watched the remaining guards from the corner of his eye. O'Toole was still standing quietly by the door, alert and ready. He saw Blake's eye on his, and winked deliberately. O'Toole, Blake decided, was ready any time.
"You were right on the murder angle," Harror admitted. "Pretty smart, ain't you?"
"About some things," Blake admitted. "I don't fall for everything I read in the papers. I know you used a hidden mono track to get us here, and that you'll probably send us back over it into a nice deep canyon, when you have everything you want off the train."
Harror leaned over silently and spat into his face. Blake saw red. With a lightning thrust he smashed the lamp from the table and plunged the room into blackness. From O'Toole's side of the room a ray gun belched fire, but Blake was already out of range. He heard a cry of pain and realized that Harror had caught the flame on the arm. Harror, outlined in the light of the ray was almost on top of him.
From the spot where O'Toole had been, Blake heard a sullen thud and a long groan of pain. Dodging from Harror's plunging fall, Blake knew O'Toole was doing his part. He grasped the edge of the table and tried to thrust it in front of Harror. The man swore loudly and kicked it away. There was a slit of light coming from under the door.
In its path, Blake saw Harror standing above him, a hairy fist descending like a ton of lead. He twisted his face around, sensed Harror's blow miss him by a fraction of an inch. Diving low he hit Harror a body blow with his shoulder and the giant doubled in pain. Blake swung upward before Harror could regain his balance, and set his fist crashing into Harror's face. The giant swung backward like an enraged elephant. Two more flashes of electro-fire went spurting over his head and O'Toole started to sing in a loud, off-key voice.
"Slug 'em," O'Toole chanted. "It's the Irish that are in this mess tonight."
In the darkness, Blake grinned painfully. His lip was split and bleeding. His arm ached from the forceful contact with Harror's jaw.
Another guard went down in the scuffle and O'Toole howled his battle cry again.
