ave another war, the 'Last War'
they said, and we escaped in that rocket and started off for Mars. But
something went wrong--fellow named Appleton pulled a gun, others just
didn't like the Martians--we needn't go into it; they wouldn't have us
so Mars didn't work out. Something else went wrong then, soon we were
lost with only a little store of fuel and supplies. Then Mr. Friden
noticed this city or whatever it is and we had enough fuel to land so we
landed."

Mr. Greypoole nodded his head slowly, somehow, sadder than before.

"I see.... You say there was a war on Earth?"

"They were going to set off X-Bomb; when they do, everything will go to
pieces. Or everything has already."

"What dreadful news! May I inquire, Captain, when you have learned where
you are--what do you intend to do?"

"Why, live here, of course!"

"No, no--try to understand. You could not conceivably fit in here with
us."

Captain Webber glanced at the motionless people. "Why not?" Then he
shouted, "What is this place? _Where am I?_"

Mr. Greypoole smiled.

"Captain, you are in a cemetery."

* * * * *

"Good work, Peterson!"

"Thanks, sir. When we all got back and Friden didn't know where you'd
gone, well, we got worried. Then we heard you shouting."

"Hold his arms--there. You heard this, Friden?"

Mr. Friden was trembling slightly. He brushed past a man with a van Dyke
beard and sat down on a leather stool. "Yes sir, I did. That is, I think
I did. What shall we do with him?"

"I don't know, yet. Take him away, Lieutenant, for now. I want to think
a bit. We'll talk to Mr. Greypoole later on."

Lieutenant Peterson pulled the smiling little man out into the street
and pointed a gun at him.

Mr. Chitterwick blinked into the face of a small child.

"Man's insane, I guess," said Mr. Milton, pacing.

"Yes, but what about all _this_?" Mr. Goeblin looked horrified at the
stationary people.

"I think I can tell you," Mr. Friden said. "Take a look, Captain."

The men crowded about a pamphlet which Mr. Friden had placed on the
stool.

Toward the top of the pamphlet and in the center of the first page was a
photograph, untinted and solemn; it depicted a white cherub delicately
poised on a granite slab. Beneath the photograph, were the words: HAPPY
GLADES.

Captain Webber turned the pages and mumbled, glancing over his shoulder
every once in a while.

"What is it, sir?" asked Mr. Chitterwick of a fr