Half an hour later, we spotted more holes, about a mile down the 'canal,' still on a line, marching along the desert, through cacti, rocks, hills, even through one edge of the low vegetation of the 'canal' for thirty feet or so. It was the damnedest thing to bend down and look straight through all that curling, twisting growth ... a round tunnel from either end. We followed the holes for about a mile, to the rim of an enormous saucerlike valley that sank gradually before us until, miles away, it was thousands of feet deep. We stared out across it, wondering about the other side. Allenby said determinedly, "We'll burrow to the _bottom_ of these holes, once and for all. Back to the ship, men!" We hiked back, climbed in and took off. At an altitude of fifty feet, Burton lined the nose of the ship on the most recent line of holes and we flew out over the valley. On the other side was a range of hefty hills. The holes went through them. Straight through. We would approach one hill--Burton would manipulate the front viewscreen until we spotted the hole--we would pass over the hill and spot the other end of the hole in the rear screen. One hole was two hundred and eighty miles long. Four hours later, we were halfway around Mars. Randolph was sitting by a side port, chin on one hand, his eyes unbelieving. "All around the planet," he kept repeating. "All around the planet...." "Halfway at least," Allenby mused. "And we can assume that it continues in a straight line, through anything and everything that gets in its way...." He gazed out the front port at the uneven blue-green haze of a 'canal' off to our left. "For the love of Heaven, why?" Then Allenby fell down. We all did. Burton had suddenly slapped at the control board, and the ship braked and sank like a plugged duck. At the last second, Burton propped up the nose with a short burst, the ten-foot wheels hit desert sand and in five hundred yards we had jounced to a stop. Allenby got up from the floor. "Why did you do that?" he asked Burton politely, nursing a bruised elbow. Burton's nose was almost touching the front port. "Look!" he said, and pointed. About two miles away, the Martian village looked like a handful of yellow marbles flung on the desert. * * * * * We checked our guns. We put on our oxygen-masks. We checked our guns again. We got out of the ship and made damned sure the airlock was locked. An hour later, we crawled inch by painstaking inch up a high sand dune and poked our heads over the top. The Martians were runts--the tallest of them less than five feet tall--and skinny as a pencil. Dried-up and brown, they wore loincloths of woven fiber. They stood among the dusty-looking inverted-bowl buildings of their village, and every one of them was looking straight up at us with unblinking brown eyes. The six safeties of our six guns clicked off like a rattle of dice. The Martians stood there and gawped.