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
