"Then we--we'll never get back now!" echoed Professor Prescott. "No, but they'll never get us here!" "Scant comfort, though, when we're pinioned here like a couple of birds with their wings clipped." "Right; but let's see. Let's figure. We're better off than we were. And what was it Napoleon once said: 'When you can't retreat, advance.' So suppose we--" "But listen!" * * * * * Stoddard heard. It was the sound of rifle shots. And looking down, he saw a feverish activity surrounding the rocket. Myriads of the pigmies were swarming upon it, while a handful of Cossacks were holding them off. "Something doing down there, all right!" he muttered. "Looks to me like--why, sure I've got it! That madman has overshot himself, for once! He's buried their precious meteor, in blowing up our ridge, and they've turned on him!" "I think you're right," agreed Professor Prescott. "Suppose we advance as you say. It looks like a chance." "Right," said Stoddard. Slowly, cautiously, they returned down the slope. When within a hundred yards, they knew they had sized up the situation correctly. With frantic speed, Krassnov was supervising the shoveling out of his rocket from amid the debris; was directing its loading, while the free members of his crew held off the enraged natives who were obstructing them. Descending even more cautiously now, they neared the scene of activity. "My plan is this--to get aboard and find out where they're going!" said Stoddard, through shut teeth. "What do you say?" "Lead on!" said the professor. So they continued down, neared the resting-place of that strange craft, and, under shelter of the moonlight shadows, stole through the confused ranks surrounding it and crept aboard. * * * * * Stowing themselves into the first likely niche that offered--a narrow cubicle behind a flight of metal stairs--they waited, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of being discovered. Fifteen minutes passed, a half-hour, when suddenly sounded a rasping of doors that told them the rocket was being sealed. Then came a roar, as of some mighty blast beating down upon the frozen earth, followed by a lifting, rushing sensation--and they were flung violently to the flooring. The pressure ceased in a moment, however, to be supplanted by a buoyant, exhilarating sense of flight. It increased, and they judged they must be traveling at great speed. Glancing at the luminous dial of his watch, Professor Prescott saw that it was a quarter to ten. "Well, we're off!" he whispered. "And where, would you guess, are we headed?" "I wouldn't guess," Stoddard whispered back. "From the way we're riding, it might be Mars! We must be making hundreds of miles an hour." "Or thousands! Who knows?" They crouched there in their cramped niche, scarcely even whispering now, as the tense minutes passed. * * * * * Suddenly the motion changed. They seemed to be dropping.