He stepped up to the window and bought two tickets. Burckhardt trailed him in to the theater. It was a weekday matinee and the place was almost empty. From the screen came sounds of gunfire and horse's hoofs. A solitary usher, leaning against a bright brass rail, looked briefly at them and went back to staring boredly at the picture as Swanson led Burckhardt down a flight of carpeted marble steps. They were in the lounge and it was empty. There was a door for men and one for ladies; and there was a third door, marked "MANAGER" in gold letters. Swanson listened at the door, and gently opened it and peered inside. "Okay," he said, gesturing. Burckhardt followed him through an empty office, to another door--a closet, probably, because it was unmarked. But it was no closet. Swanson opened it warily, looked inside, then motioned Burckhardt to follow. It was a tunnel, metal-walled, brightly lit. Empty, it stretched vacantly away in both directions from them. Burckhardt looked wondering around. One thing he knew and knew full well: No such tunnel belonged under Tylerton. * * * * * There was a room off the tunnel with chairs and a desk and what looked like television screens. Swanson slumped in a chair, panting. "We're all right for a while here," he wheezed. "They don't come here much any more. If they do, we'll hear them and we can hide." "Who?" demanded Burckhardt. The little man said, "Martians!" His voice cracked on the word and the life seemed to go out of him. In morose tones, he went on: "Well, I think they're Martians. Although you could be right, you know; I've had plenty of time to think it over these last few weeks, after they got you, and it's possible they're Russians after all. Still--" "Start from the beginning. Who got me when?" Swanson sighed. "So we have to go through the whole thing again. All right. It was about two months ago that you banged on my door, late at night. You were all beat up--scared silly. You begged me to help you--" "_I_ did?" "Naturally you don't remember any of this. Listen and you'll understand. You were talking a blue streak about being captured and threatened, and your wife being dead and coming back to life, and all kinds of mixed-up nonsense. I thought you were crazy. But--well, I've always had a lot of respect for you. And you begged me to hide you and I have this darkroom, you know. It locks from the inside only. I put the lock on myself. So we went in there--just to humor you--and along about midnight, which was only fifteen or twenty minutes after, we passed out." "Passed out?" Swanson nodded. "Both of us. It was like being hit with a sandbag. Look, didn't that happen to you again last night?" "I guess it did," Burckhardt shook his head uncertainly. "Sure. And then all of a sudden we were awake again, and you said you were going to show me something funny, and we went out and bought a paper. And the date on it was June 15th."