A gigantic building, rising to several hundred feet in height, domed,
without door or window, stood lonely in the vastness of the red plain
that stretched to the far-off black horizon.
The building and nothing more. No other single sign of habitation. No
other evidence of intelligent life.
The Martian lilies were everywhere, great fields of them, bright
scarlet against the redness of the sand. But in its native soil the
Martian lily was a sorry thing, a poor apology for the kind of flower
that grew on Earth. Stunted, low-growing, with smaller and less
brilliant flowers.
The sand gritted under Scott's boots as he took a slow step forward.
So this was Mars! Here, at the North pole ... the single building ...
the only evidence of intelligence on the entire planet. As the ship had
circled the planet, cutting down its tremendous speed, he had studied
the surface in the telescopic glass and this building had been the only
habitation he had seen.
It stood there, made of shimmering metal, glinting in the pale sunlight.
"Bugs," said Jimmy, at Scott's elbow.
"What do you mean, bugs?" asked Scott.
"Bugs in the air," said Jimmy. "Flying bugs."
Scott saw them then. Things that looked like streaks of light in the
feeble sunshine. Swarms of them hovered about the great building and
others darted busily about.
"Bees," suggested Jimmy.
But Scott shook his head. They weren't bees. They glinted and flashed
when the sun's light struck them and they seemed more mechanical than
life-like.
"Where are the Martians?" Jimmy demanded.
"I don't know, Jimmy," declared Scott. "Damned if I do."
He had envisioned the first Earthmen reaching Mars as receiving
thunderous ovation, a mighty welcome from the Martians. But there
weren't any Martians. Nothing stirred except the shining bugs and the
lilies that nodded in a thin, cold breeze.
There was no sound, no movement. Like a quiet summer afternoon back on
Earth, with a veil of quietness drawn over the flaming desert and the
shimmering building.
He took another step, walking toward the great building. The sand
grated protestingly beneath his boot-heels.
Slowly he approached the building, alert, watching, ready for some
evidence that he and Jimmy had been seen. But no sign came. The bugs
droned overhead, the lilies nodded sleepily. That was all.
Scott looked at the thermometer strapped to the wrist of his oxygen
suit. The needle registered 10 above, Centigrade. Warm enough, but
the suits were necessary, for the air was far too thin for human
consumption.
Deep shadow lay at the base of the building and as he neared it, Scott
made out something that gleamed whitely in the shadow. Something that
struck a chord of remembrance in his brain, something he had seen back
on Earth.
As he hurried forward he saw it was a cross. A white cross thrust into
the sand.
With a cry he broke into a run.
Before the cross he dropped to his knees and read the crudely carved
inscription on the wood. Just two words. The name of a man, carven with
a jack-knife: