I turned away. There was a bitter taste in my mouth from all the lies
I'd told--all the bilge.
But I knew the truth, too. I was as sure of that as I was of anything.
It wasn't insanity, of course. And it wasn't reincarnation. It seemed to
be, because the mind has a habit of _possessing_ for its very own
anything that enters it.
The truth of the matter was that somehow, in some incomprehensible way,
the Martians were still with us. They hated us and they knew how to use
our weak ones.
The old Martians--and their science.
I took a last look at the weapon lying on the table, then left the room
and climbed the stairs to the first floor. I walked down the silent,
empty hall to the exit and out into the night.
I let my eyes roam the blackness of the lifeless Martian desert. With an
effort I pulled them away and fixed them on the warmth, the human
warmth, beckoning from the hotel.
I started walking toward that bit of comfort, and as I walked the
eternal question that haunted all of us in C.I. hovered in the
background of my thoughts.
Would we be able to _contain_ the Martians until we understood the
terrible machines they had left as a deadly heritage?
Tonight we almost hadn't....