first monster.

Nelson stiffened. "Great God! And that's what'll happen to us!"

* * * * *

Weakened by his head wound, and blind with nausea, he stumbled to the
rear of the cell to collapse upon a pile of foul straw, littered with
equipment which the superstitious captors must have condemned together
with the owners.

Nelson sank upon them, then stiffened, for his outflung hand had
encountered a hard, familiar outline. It was a .45 automatic pistol.

A moment's furious search revealed that the captors had missed or not
understood the use of the weapon in Alden's leather flying coat.

"God, but we're lucky," Nelson panted. "The Atlanteans never saw this
pistol of yours. They're only used to my rifle."

Hope lit Alden's features, then faded. "But what good is a .45
against brutes like those? Might at well have a pop gun!"

"Still we're lucky," grunted Nelson, delighted to find the magazine
yet filled. "Can't tell what's ahead. Yes, we're the luckiest--"

He broke off in quick alarm. From overhead had come a premonitory
clang! Somewhere a tackle whined and, with a sense of suffocation,
both men realised that now the bars of _their_ prison were beginning
to creep up into a long slit in the stone ceiling!

Cold fingers of fear clutched Nelson's heart as the terrible
allosauri, their jaws yet dripping redly, wheeled about at the
familiar sound--to stand listening. Up and up crept the ponderous
grille, while the allosauri commenced to shuffle forward, fixing on
their next victims enormous, unblinking green eyes.

* * * * *

While the whole loathsome cell spun about, Victor Nelson forced stiff
fingers to throw off the safety catch as the nearest allosaurus opened
its cavernous mouth in anticipation, displaying an array of curved
teeth, as long and sharp as bayonets. Standing some fifteen feet high
at the shoulder the horrible creature's body was; it all but blotted
out the light. The bars rose inexorably. Now they were waist high....
Now above Nelson's head.... In a moment would come the rush.

Richard Alden stood up straight and squared his shoulders. "Good-by,
Vic," he said, in clear, unafraid tones. "I don't imagine that .45
will even tickle those ghastly brutes."

Nelson nodded. "All over but the cheering," he replied with that
strange, macabre humor which often comes to solace men about to die.

"See you in church." There was an equally gallant