For a moment silence answered him. Then the voice uttered a low gasp. "It's the first section of the third cypher," she said. "It means ... wait a minute ... it means that the Tombs are in the Dur-Par section of the desert. Jimmy, we've got to go there." "The Tombs?" he repeated. "Yes, according to the _Chronicles_, a secret store of thousands of those parasitical figurines is hidden somewhere out in the Red Desert. The first dynasty Martians, you see, prepared for the emergency which they knew was inevitable, the disappearance of _pxar_ from this planet. That was before they knew of the images' plague properties. "We've got a race on our hands, Jimmy. Even now the man who first stole the figurines may be heading directly for the Tombs." Jimmy Starr took out a cheroot, lit it mechanically. Then he voiced a single question. "You must have a personal interest in this matter. What is it?" She had the answer for that too. "My brother," she said, "is one of the technical officials for the canal-locks project. A murder charge was framed on him, and he was given the alternative of being 'exposed' to the I.P. men or agreeing to accept all the _pxar_ an unidentified source could supply with no questions asked. He has agreed. "I ... I love my brother, but this has gone beyond personalities now. This is plague, wholesale murder; all Mars is at stake." Jimmy Starr made an instant decision. "Where will I meet you?" he said. She considered. Then, "You'll find instructions at the Canal Grand entrance. Good luck, Jimmy." * * * * * Half an hour later Jimmy climbed out of a tube-cage and emerged onto a deserted square at the outskirts of Crater City. Before him, dim in the overhead light, a sign read: THE CANALS POSITIVELY NO TRESPASSING ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK Before the sign stood a small kiosk with dusty bulletins tacked upon it. Jimmy waited impatiently, pacing to and fro. Then his eye caught sight of a small envelope protruding from a crevice on the kiosk wall. It bore no name or address, but upon its surface was the design of the Constellation Orion. Inside, a scrap of paper bore the written words: "_Canal Grand--south. Way Station X. I'll meet you there._" He pursed his lips. What kind of a game was this? Unseen speakers on the visiphone. Mysterious messages directing him into the unknown. It smacked of a twentieth century thriller. All his inherent sense of danger warned him to turn back. In answer, that haunting voice rang again in his ears: "_Good luck, Jimmy._" He turned to the stair well and began to descend. Darkness was here, and he could feel the thick red dust under his shoes as he went down. Fifty-seven ... fifty-eight ... first ... second ... third level. Not until he reached the bottom and stood before the massive door leading into the canal did he switch on his electric torch. Then he stared.