After awhile he felt better and needed work again. He took up his planned study of the Martian recordings, correlating the spoken words with the written ones he had already arduously learned to read. The Martian Museum readily lent him the recordings he requested for use in his work, including the one made on Earth. He studied the Martian-language portion of this and succeeded in making a partial translation--but carefully refrained from playing the middle section of the film back again. Came a day, though, when it occurred to him that he had heard not a word from Thwaite. He made inquiries through the Museum and learned that the archeologist had applied for a leave of absence and left before it was granted. Gone where? The Museum people didn't know--but Thwaite had not been trying to cover his trail. A call to Global Air Transport brought the desired information. A premonition ran up Dalton's spine--but he was surprised at how calmly he thought and acted. He picked up the phone and called Transport again--this time their booking department. "When's the earliest time I can get passage to Belem?" he asked. With no more than an hour to pack and catch the rocket he hurried to the Museum. The place was more or less populated with sightseers, which was annoying, because Dalton's plans now included larceny. He waited before the building till the coast was clear, then, with handkerchief-wrapped knuckles, broke the glass and tripped the lever on the fire alarm. In minutes a wail of sirens and roar of arriving motors was satisfyingly loud in the main exhibit room. Police and fire department helicopters buzzed overhead. A wave of mingled fright and curiosity swept visitors and attendants alike to the doors. Dalton, lingering, found himself watched only by the millennially sightless eyes of the man who lay in state in an airless glass tomb. The stern face was inscrutable behind the silence of many thousand years. "Excuse me, Oswald," murmured Dalton. "I'd like to borrow something of yours but I'm sure you won't mind." The reed flute was in a long case devoted to Earthly specimens. Unhesitatingly Dalton smashed the glass. * * * * * Brazil is a vast country, and it cost much trouble and time and expense before Dalton caught up with Thwaite in a forlorn riverbank town along the line where civilization hesitates on the shore of that vast sea of vegetation called the _mato_. Night had just fallen when Dalton arrived. He found Thwaite alone in a lighted room of the single drab hotel--alone and very busy. The archeologist was shaggily unshaven. He looked up and said something that might have been a greeting devoid of surprise. Dalton grimaced apologetically, set down his suitcase and pried the wax plugs out of his ears, explaining with a gesture that included the world outside, where the tree frogs sang deafeningly in the hot stirring darkness of the near forest. "How do you stand it?" he asked.