Cursing the
treachery of their late host, Nelson and Alden watched dozens upon
dozens of hoplites come swarming up the stairs in solid,
dully-gleaming ranks. Apparently intent to take them prisoners, the
foremost Atlanteans made a rush, giving the American time to fire just
twice.

Unable to retreat, the helpless aviators stood to meet the engulfing
wave of hoplites. Nelson struck out as hard as he could at those
yelling, red-bearded faces, though he knew the effort was hopeless. He
was dimly conscious that Alden, not far away, also fought with the
vigor of despair.

With a sense of savage satisfaction, the dark haired aviator felt his
fist impact solidly into a yelling, sweating face; then something
struck his head and, amid a miniature sunburst, his senseless form
sank limply on the damp stones of the great staircase.

* * * * *

After an interval, the length of which he did not know, Victor Nelson
opened his eyes slowly, for his head throbbed like a savage's war
drum. Uttering a stifled groan he shut the lids to still an
overpowering sense of nausea which gripped him, but a moment later he
made another attempt to discover in what sort of place he found
himself. Gradually, his eyes became accustomed to a curious orange-red
glare beyond a series of bars. Bars? The idea fixed itself in his
benumbed brain; bars meant prison! Yes, those grim blank walls bore
out the assumption. He lay on the damp stone floor of what must be a
fairly spacious cell. Beneath his leather aviator's jacket he
shuddered. "Jail, eh? What a nice place to wake up in!"

A groan from behind him prompted Nelson to painfully raise his head
and look about. He blinked dazedly, meanwhile trying to focus his
eyes, then he heaved a faint sigh of relief as his gaze encountered
the muscular, well-proportioned figure of Richard Alden, who half sat,
half reclined, against one of the grey stone walls, burying a ghastly
pale face between trembling hands.

"You hurt?" To speak, Nelson drew a slightly deeper breath and at once
became conscious of a horrible, throat-wrenching stench. Dimly, he
recalled having once before encountered such an odor; when was it? Oh,
yes; during the Great War when he'd stumbled into a dugout tenanted by
long unburied corpses. A cold finger stabbed at his brain. Corpses.

"Are you hurt, Dick?" he repeated hoarsely.

* * * * *

The lax figure stirred and Alden's bl