Burckhardt looked wondering around. One thing he knew and knew full well: No such tunnel belonged under Tylerton. here 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." "June 15th? But that's today! I mean—" "You got it, friend. It's always today!"
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