to push against the enormous contractile force that the surface of the ocean possessed.

Crowds roved through the streets, aimless, purposeless, their voices dry, racking, their eyes bloodshot, cheeks sunken. Beer and soft drinks, the only drinkable liquids that were not affected, were selling for ten dollars a bottle. The supply was fast dwindling, and the price was being jacked up.

Water was all around them, but they were the children of Tantalus.

Newspapers began to demand, in stringent tones, that the situation be remedied. Crowds gathered outside the World Administration Building, shouting for water, and they were fully willing to go to the extreme of meeting the demands of the Martians to get it.

The Speaker of the Master Conclave, and the Japanese and Spanish sectional governors, stood in a room on the upper floor of the World Administration Building.

The room was a kitchen.

On the floor lay a huge, polished, glistening drop of water.

"That's what it is, gentlemen," said the Speaker. "A drop of water, just what you'd expect if the surface tension of water increased a million times. The surface film acts like a tight skin or jacket surrounding a drop of water, and the jacket contracts down to the least possible area, a sphere. If you put your hands on it—the way I've got my hands on this damned thing—you increase the 'coastline,' and the surface film doesn't like that. It tries to decrease the coastline formed by your fingers, so your fingers are crushed together. If you managed to actually penetrate the film, and get your hands wet, the terrific capillary action of the molecules would cause the surface film to literally envelop you, and you'd be inside, and you couldn't get out.... What are we going to do about it?"

His face was drawn and haggard and sunken.

The Spanish Governor said hoarsely, "We couldn't give in, could we?"

"No!" the Japanese Governor lashed out savagely; but in a moment a fleeting smile crossed his face. "Send for Olduk," he said.

Olduk entered the room, unsteadily, supported by two plain-clothesmen. His face was clean of blood, but the little, horrible marks inflicted on him were all too evident.

"You wished to see me?" he said in a hoarse whisper. His eyes were bloodshot.

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