It was a magnificent miracle. Dull eyes slowly rose up through many levels of fear and defeat and shock. Bent bodies straightened beneath dirt-caked rags. Bearded faces of men and haggard faces of women glowed with surging inner fires, newly kindled. Hands and arms raised. Voices joined in the Terran Anthem. The song the Martians hated with all the power of their cold minds to hate. Bony arms raised, quivering with weakness, but not anymore with fear. And cracked voices that grew stronger with each surging note, joined in a last outburst of defiance. Earth, Earth is mine. No Gods destroy its soft green wine Of verdant hills and sun-warmed summertime. Earthmen we! Soldiers of the azure sea! Pioneers had sung it when colonization of bitter worlds was only beginning. In the unending swamps of Venus, its turbulent strains had shattered the dreary monotony of loneliness. Over the deserts of Mars and the iceflows of Saturn the song had spelled unity of purpose, defiance of seemingly insurmountable barriers. Many an Earthman had died in the alien vapors of far places with its blood-stirring rhythm on his lips. Unashamed tears cut the grime of Larson's face as he stood there on wide spread, stubby legs. But Venard laughed with animal joy and flourished the memory-sphere. A beautiful woman still laughed from its crystalline depths, smiled without care as though she were again meeting Venard in the synthetic spring gardens of Theophilus Crater. * * * * * The Martians shivered with indecision. They were fanatical, though; only a few more seconds would be needed to send them in an exulting suicidal charge. But louder the slaves sang. Earth! Earth we know. Immortal world where Solar dreamers go To sleep among ice-peaks and sunlit snow. Earthman I! Wanderer of space and sky. The chorus was a swelling, deafening thunder of defiance in the towering expanse of corridor. Alarms clanged confusion in the background. Doors opened on the many tiers above Venard and Larson. Glaring lights swept frantically in sporadic circles. Marties appeared in hundreds of openings with H-guns poised, nervously, uncertainly; anxiety mucous flowed from pulsing pores. "Sing!" laughed Venard wildly. He didn't feel quite sane, and he didn't care. "Earth isn't dead. Not while you can still sing, you're not dead, and your song will live forever!" His wild laughter rang carelessly and madly up the towering heights of the partly-repaired corridor, down the lengths of it both ways, through the open oval door beyond which torture flames still glittered and shadowed, dehumanized bodies curled. A thunderous moan spread up and outward. Chains clanged as awakened hope and honor and returning sense of dignity burned again in withered hearts. Then a number of H-guns burst suddenly into spontaneous, nervous slaughter.