aughed, if indeed laughter was possible
for such a race, at sight of the White Ones creeping timidly down. Off
a mile and more they could see them harvesting their strange
crop--harvesting!--storing up supplies of food, no doubt, when the
mole-men with their flame-throwers would reap the harvest so soon!

But in a crimson field Dean and Gor and Loah led the others where they
swarmed across the Place of Death, gathering huge armfuls of the
red-flowering vine, carrying them to the village and returning for
more. Where they trod it was as if peach pits were crushed beneath
their feet. And there was a curious fragrance which Rawson told them
not to breathe, but to keep their faces always into the wind.

Their hands and bodies were sore and burned by the strong juice of the
vines. They stopped often to cast apprehensive glances at the distant
group of red figures, and always Rawson drove them in a frenzy of
haste. At last he made them move the long trough of stone beyond the
edge of the green field and over into the Place of Death.

Rawson kept no track of the time. The voice of the mountain was his
only measure of hours in a world of perpetual day. But more
hours--another day, perhaps--had passed when the Red force at last
began to move.

* * * * *

They did not spread out wide across the valley, but formed a
straggling line that was denser toward the center. They could not know
what opposition they would meet; for the present they would stay
together. Above them as they came were twinkling lights of pale-green
fire.

The radio had spoken of heat rays; Rawson wondered if that meant some
newer and more horrible instrument. But he saw nothing but the
flame-throwers in the armament of this force.

He was waiting by the irrigation pool, hidden for the moment behind
the little knoll. Loah was with him; he had tried in vain to induce
her to stay with Gor and the others who were waiting beyond the
mountain.

There were watchers, some of them within hearing, whose voices relayed
the news of the enemy's advance. Then they ran; panic was upon them.

"_Tur--gona!_" they cried, "_Nu--tur--gona!_ We die! Quickly we die!"
Rawson heard the shout carried on toward the hidden throng.

Cautiously he peered from the little knoll. They were coming. Already
they were trampling the remaining red blooms on the farther edge of
the field. But he waited till they were halfway across before he
leaped to the