"Quick, Waldron! Quick!" he shouted, in the shrill treble of senility,
and ran into the corridor that led to the north wing. Waldron, suddenly
sobered, followed; and from the offices, where the night-shift of clerks
were laboring (or had been, till the first explosion), came crowding
pale and frightened men. Not the fighting cast of Air Trust slaves,
these, but the anaemic chemists and experimenters and clerical workers,
scabs, to a man. Now, in the common sentiment of fear, they jostled
Flint and Waldron, as though these plutocrats had been but common clay.
And in the corridor a babel rose, through which fresh volleys and ever
more and more violent explosions ripped and thundered.
Flint struck savagely at some who barred his way; and Waldron elbowed
through, with curses.
"Get out of the way, you swine!" shrilled the old Billionaire. "Make
way, there! Way!"
The two men reached a door that led by a private passage, through to the
steel-and-concrete laboratories.
"Here, this way, Flint!" shouted Waldron.
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