Bar's voice was triumphant, and his chest swelled as he spoke: "It's good you feel that way, Professor, because we knew we would win. We want no more of you puny Earthlings. We want no more of your science that thinks it knows all, yet cannot even walk without a bubble on its head. We want no more of teachers who teach, yet cannot run without bouncing into the air like mountain-goats. You have given us all you can; now you only take away. Go ... get out ... go away from Mars where no one belongs but us. Go Home, Earthmen!" "Go Home Earthmen!" The shout from fifty-three throats was almost deafening. "And if you don't," Bar shouted above the din, "we'll destroy all your domes, and you'll die like the fish out of water that you are. So get out, _go_--and leave us to raise future generations of _real_ Martians. Mars for the Martians!" "Mars for the Martians!" echoed the other voices, the amplified shouts swelling out the windows into the red desert. Dayton felt only dull shock. He had known so well. Almost as if he had written a twenty-year-long script, and now the final lines were being spoken at last. Still, there was much he must say before they left. "Wait a little, Bar. We'll leave, but first there are many things you should--" "No, Professor! _Go now!_" A mighty fist doubled, and a large dark-brown finger pointed out the window. The professor followed the finger's direction with his eyes, until they lighted upon the slim bullet-shaped ship in the near distance--the space ship, _Albatross_, lying securely berthed in a hammock of sand that shimmered eerily in the clashing sunlight. That night, the fifty-three Martians herded their former teachers into the _Albatross_. The scientists stood at the video screen in the nose of the ship, and watched the greenhouses, the ranches, the home-dwellings, all the marks of Earth, being wrecked with fiery precision. Then, their beloved charts, the carefully-written notes, the photograph albums, everything that told of the slow growth of fifty-three Earthling babies to huge-chested Martians ... all these, piled in a heap, to be ignited. Someone--Bar, Dayton thought--took the torch and threw it on the paper. In the clear cold air, the books took fire slowly, tiny blue flames licking up through them, and then, suddenly, a brief, intense glare of red and orange and yellow. In the firelight, the brown faces looked almost savage. The pilot shrugged his shoulders. "There'll be a war in twenty-five years," he said. "No," Dayton said softly, and behind him, the others nodded silently. "We have no need to worry." The pilot looked at him strangely, then shrugged. Ah well, he had a job: to get them home and warn the Earth government.