* * * * * Their lives should end with the sailing of the fleet, and there, outside their window, were the ships themselves. Ships everywhere, as far as he could see across the broad level expanse, and an army of men who scurried like ants--red ones, who worked or directed the others, and countless blues and yellows who were loading the craft with enormous cargoes. "Squawk, damn you!" said Lieutenant McGuire to the distant shrieking throng; "and I hope they're ready for you when you reach the earth." But his savage voice carried no conviction. What was there that Earth could do to meet this overwhelming assault? "What is it?" asked Sykes. He roused from his sleep to work gingerly at his aching muscles, then came and stood beside McGuire. "They have put us here as a final taunt," McGuire told him. "There is the fleet that is going to make our world into a nice little hell, and Torg, the beast! has put us here to see it leave. Then we get ours, and they don't know that we know that." "Your first way was the best," the scientist observed; "we should have done it then. We still can." "What do you mean?" The flyer's voice was dull and lifeless. Sykes pointed to the little balcony and the hard pavement below. "Althora," he said, and McGuire winced at the name, "seemed to think that we were in for some exquisite torture. Here is the way out. It is a hundred-foot drop; they think we are safe; but they have been unintentionally kind." "Yes," his companion agreed, "they don't know that we know of the torture. We will wait ... and when I am sure that--Althora--is--gone ... when there is nothing I can do to help--" "Help?" queried the professor gently. "There is nothing now of help, nor anyone who can help us. We must face it, my boy; _c'est fini_. Our little journey is approaching its end." * * * * * There was no reply, and McGuire stood throughout the day to stare with eyes of smouldering hatred where the scurrying swarms of living things made ready to invade and infest the earth. Food and water was pushed through the doorway, but he ate sparingly of the odd-colored fruits; the only thing that could hold his thoughts from the hopeless repetition of unanswerable "whys" was the sight of the fleet. And every bale and huge drum was tallied mentally as it passed before his eyes. The ships were being loaded, and with their sailing--But, no! He must not let himself think of that!