seen to say
anything at all.

The light came from a grid of bars set far above their heads into the
native rock which roofed this storehouse, for storehouse it was. There
were orderly lines of boxes, some large enough to contain a tank, others
no bigger than a man's fist. Symbols in the same blue-green-purple
lights of the outer wall shone from their sides.

"What--?" Buck began one question and then changed it to another: "Where
do we begin to look?"

"Toward the far end." Travis started down the center aisle between rows
of the massed spoils of another time and world--or worlds. The same tape
which had given him the clue to the unlocking of the door, emphasized
the importance of something stored at the far end, an object or objects
which must be used first. He had wondered about that tape. A sensation
of urgency, almost of despair, had come through the gabble of alien
words, the quick sequence of diagrams and pictures. The message might
have been taped under a threat of some great peril.

There was no dust on the rows of boxes or on the floor underfoot. A
current of cold, fresh air blew at intervals down the length of the huge
chamber. They could not see the next aisle across the barriers of stored
goods, but the only noise was a whisper and the faint sounds of their
own feet. They came out into an open space backed by the wall, and
Travis saw what had been so important.

"No!" His protest was involuntary, but his denial loud enough to echo.

Six--six of them--tall, narrow cases set upright against the wall; and
from their depths, five pairs of dark eyes staring back at him in cold
measurement. These were the men of the ships--the men Menlik had dreamed
of--their bald white heads, their thin bodies with the skintight
covering of the familiar blue-green-purple. Five of them were here,
alive--watching ... waiting....

Five men--and six boxes. That small fact broke the spell in which those
eyes held Travis. He looked again at the sixth box to his right.
Expecting to meet another pair of eyes this time, he was disconcerted to
face only emptiness. Then, as his gaze traveled downward, he saw what
lay on the floor there--a skull, a tangle of bones, tattered material
cobwebbed into dusty rags by time. Whatever had preserved five of the
star men intact, had failed the sixth of their company.

"They are alive!" Jil-Lee whispered.

"I do not think so," Buck answered. Travis took another step, reached
out to touch the