carven statue in the midst of a
barren sandy waste in the vast cup of a towering volcano top--sand
that was in reality coarse pumice and ash. This was a place of death,
a place where raging fires had left nothing for plant or animal life.
And, over all, the desert stars shone down coldly and added to the
desolation with their own pale light.

Smithy had seen Rawson pull himself to the top of the great
square-edged rock. Sensing that danger of some sort was threatening,
he had started to run to the aid of the struggling man. Then came
Rawson's cry.

"Back!" he shouted. "Get back, Smithy! I'm coming--"

But he did not come; and Smithy, halted by the command, was frozen to
sudden, panic-stricken immobility by that which followed.

He saw the leaping things, like grotesque yellow giants. They came
from the sand; then red ones leaped up from the open throat that had
suddenly formed. They held flame throwers, the red ones; and the green
lines of fire melted the rock from beneath Rawson's feet. All in the
one second's time, it was done, and Rawson's body, his arms wide
flung, was hurtling downward into the waiting throat and the
threatening red glow from within. Then the carriers of the flame
throwers vanished again into the pit, and there was left only a huddle
of giant figures that tore at the loose sand and ash with their hands.

They threw the material in a continuous stream; the air was full of
cascading sand. To Smithy they were suddenly inhuman--they were almost
animals; men like moles. And they and their companions had captured
Dean Rawson--sent him to his death. Slowly the watching man raised
himself from the crouched position that had kept him hidden.

They were through with their work, these great yellow-skinned naked
men--or mole-men. Six of them--Smithy counted them slowly before he
took aim--and two were armed with flame-throwers.

Smithy rested his arm across the little hummock of gritty ash that
had sheltered him and sent six flashes of flame through the night
toward the cluster of bodies.

* * * * *

He made no attempt to aim at each individual--the shapes were too
shadowy for that. And he had no knowledge of what other weapons they
might have. One thing was sure: he must take no chances on facing the
red ones single-handed. He rammed his empty pistol back into its
holster as he turned and ran--ran with every ounce of energy he
possessed to drive his flying feet across