Lantry almost gave a shout. He restrained his hand, which wanted so much to reach up into the sky and touch Mars. Lovely red star on the sky. Good star that gave him sudden new hope. If he had a living heart now it would be thrashing wildly, and sweat would be breaking out of him and his pulses would be stammering, and tears would be in his eyes! He would go down to where ever the rockets sprang up into space. He would go to Mars, one way or another. He would go to the Martian tombs. There, there, by God, were bodies, he would bet his last hatred on it, that would rise and walk and work with him! Theirs was an ancient culture, much different from that of Earth, patterned on the Egyptian, if what the librarian had said was true. And the Egyptian--what a crucible of dark superstition and midnight terror that culture had been! Mars it _was_, then. Beautiful Mars! But he must not attract attention to himself. He must move carefully. He wanted to run, yes, to get away, but that would be the worst possible move he could make. The man with the white hair was glancing at Lantry from time to time, in the entranceway. There were too many people about. If anything happened he would be outnumbered. So far he had taken on only _one_ man at a time. Lantry forced himself to stop and stand on the steps before the warehouse. The man with the white hair came on onto the steps also and stood, looking at the sky. He looked as if he was going to speak at any moment. He fumbled in his pockets, took out a packet of cigarettes. V They stood outside the morgue together, the tall pink, white-haired man, and Lantry, hands in their pockets. It was a cool night with a white shell of a moon that washed a house here, a road there, and further on, parts of a river. "Cigarette?" The man offered Lantry one. "Thanks." They lit up together. The man glanced at Lantry's mouth. "Cool night." "Cool." They shifted their feet. "Terrible accident." "Terrible." "So many dead." "So many." Lantry felt himself some sort of delicate weight upon a scale. The other man did not seem to be looking at him, but rather listening and feeling toward him. There was a feathery balance here that made for vast discomfort. He wanted to move away and get out from under this balancing, weighing. The tall white-haired man said, "My name's McClure." "Did you have any friends inside?" asked Lantry. "No. A casual acquaintance. Awful accident." "Awful." They balanced each other. A beetle hissed by on the road with its seventeen tires whirling quietly. The moon showed a little town further over in the black hills. "I say," said the man McClure. "Yes." "Could you answer me a question?" "Be glad to." He loosened the knife in his coat pocket, ready. "Is your name Lantry?" asked the man at last. "Yes." "_William_ Lantry?" "Yes." "Then you're the man who came out of the Salem graveyard day before yesterday, aren't you?" "Yes."