A deep voice murmured a command. The light grew brighter. Tony blinked, staring up from his position spread-eagled on a stone floor. He discovered that he was in a bare chamber, with a barred door of metal grating set in one wall. Five strong-thewed Copts held him—but almost immediately Tony saw that they were not Copts. Their faces lacked the degeneracy of the underground mining race. They were cruel instead of stupid. Cruel—and arrogant, proud! Proud with the knowledge of a culture that stretched back into the mists of a lost antiquity. One man stood against the wall—and he was a giant. He wore a short spade beard, and soft, glossy black hair fell in curled, oily ringlets about his face. He was handsome with the beauty of a sword-blade, strong and powerful and deadly, and his beaked nose was hooked like a scimitar. Pale blue eyes watched Tony unwinkingly. * * * * * In not-quite-perfect English, he said, “I am Thotmes.” Tony could not repress a slight movement, and the blue eyes narrowed; but the priest merely smiled. “You know me? That is strange. Perhaps you have spoke to ... Osiris!” He nodded to the priests, who relaxed their grip on Tony. The legionnaire sprang up, but made no hostile movement. He stood silent, watching Thotmes. The Atlantean stroked his beard. “You are wise. This will be your prison, and, if you cause no trouble, you can live for a time. We do not murder unnecessarily.” “Only nine-tenths of the world’s population,” Tony said gently. “That,” Thotmes smiled, “is necessary. We are a handful, against billions. Not even the powers we shall recover from Atlantis would enable us to conquer Earth—unless Earth is already conquered, her navies and aircraft and weapons smashed by cataclysms.” “You actually expect to make a second Moon?” Tony’s voice held skepticism. But the priest was not offended. “Yes. Such a thing was done once before. The machine that made the Moon was built in Atlantis, and we have built a duplicate here. It took centuries, but at last it is finished. In the heart of the pyramid it lies—and already it is in operation.” “In operation?” Involuntarily Tony glanced around. “I don’t—” “You feel nothing here and now, of course. Later you may, though we are safe in Alu. The machine sets up vibration and molecular disruption in certain strata under Europe, and gradually the intensity of the vibration will be increased—until Europe shakes itself literally to pieces. In a week or even less the final cataclysm will take place. Europe will vanish, leaving an abyss into which the waters of the Atlantic will pour. And Atlantis will rise again!” “That,” said Tony, “will be Old Home Week, eh?” Thotmes didn’t answer. He turned to the others and gestured. One of them slid open the barred grating, and the group filed out. The door slammed.