s, as the Com-Pubs said. You will
wait until morning and try to make peaceful contact with them. This
barrier may be merely a precaution on their part. You will try to
convince them that we wish to be friendly."

"I don't believe they're Martians, sir--"

Sylva came racing to the door of the plane.

"Thorn! Something's coming! I hear it droning!"

Thorn himself heard a dull droning noise in the air, coming toward
him.

"Occupants of the rocket-ship, sir," he said grimly, "seem to be
approaching. Orders?"

"Evacuate the ship," snapped the G.C. phone. "Let them examine it.
They will understand how we communicate and prepare to receive and
exchange messages. If they seem friendly, make contact at once."

* * * * *

Thorn made swift certain movements and dived for the door. He seized
Sylva and fled for the darkness below the plane. He was taking a
desperate risk of falling down the mountain-slopes. The droning drew
near. It passed directly overhead. Then there was a flash and a
deafening report. A beam of light appeared aloft. It searched for and
found Thorn's plane, now a wreck. Flash after flash and explosion
after explosion followed....

They stopped. Their echoes rolled and reverberated among the hills.
There was a hollow, tremendous intensification of the echoes aloft as
if a dome of some solid substance had reflected back the sound. Slowly
the rollings died away. Then a voice boomed through a speaker
overhead, and despite his suspicions Thorn felt a queer surprise. It
was a human voice, a man's voice, full of a horrible amusement.

"Thorn Hardt! Thorn Hardt! Where are you?" Thorn did not move or
reply. "If I haff not killed you, you hear me," the voice chuckled.
"Come to see me, Thorn Hardt. Der dome of force iss big, yes, but you
can no more get out than your friends can get in. And now I haff
destroyed your phones so you can no longer chat with them. Come and
see me, Thorn Hardt, so I will not be bored. We will discuss der
Com-Pubs. And bring der lady friend. You may play der chaperon!"

The voice laughed. It was not pleasant laughter. And the humming drone
in the air rose and dwindled. It moved away from the mountain-top. It
lessened and lessened until it was inaudible. Then there was dead
silence again.

"By his accent, he's a Baltic Russian," said Thorn very grimly in the
darkness. "Which means Com-Pubs, not Martians, though we're the only
people who realize it; and