amazes me that I didn't think of the very same thing. But, of course, you're one hundred and thirty nine years older than I and, naturally, your mind is more alert."

"Naturally," Kir-Um nodded. "But to get back to more vital matters.... We shall go to this Joe Carson, who, according to the thoughts of that creature inside, resides in a place called Majestic, Maine. I also receive the impression this town is three hundred miles north of here, in a straight line. The problem of transportation is easily solved; we will purloin some sort of vehicle for the purpose. Once there, we shall question this intellect, under influence of a hypnotic sleep, and lay bare his secret. The plan will move forward of its own momentum then. Let us go."

The two alien beings from a far world eventually gained the ground floor and, easily forcing the, to them, crude lock, made their way out into the night.

For a long moment, they stood, looking up at the black, impassive sky. Something within their hearts called out to the mocking void for reassurance; pleading for a tiny shred of encouragement. But no answer came from the hollow emptiness that surrounded them.

Then, placing a thumb and finger to their nostrils, in the ageless Martian gesture signifying complete unity of purpose, Harl and Kir-Um strode forth to meet the destiny that awaited them.

Joe Carson glanced back uneasily at the two disheveled, unkempt figures pedaling along wearily behind him. He was returning home from the nearest drugstore, having purchased there all the latest science-fiction magazines he could lay his hands on. The mysterious strangers had appeared suddenly from a side-street, four blocks back, and had clung doggedly to his trail, from that point on. Joe didn't know what they were up to, but he was keeping a wary eye on them.

Harl and Kir-Um had performed a somewhat remarkable feat in driving two stolen bicycles across three hundred odd miles of steaming, strength-sapping, concrete highways and bumpy, bone-dry country lanes, that weren't much more than wagon-ruts through the woods. They had made many false starts and had fallen prey to numerous mishaps, such as punctures and broken spokes. They had subsisted on berries, small game and whatever food they could glean from a farmer's field. Since they had not yet mastered the tongue of these Earth people, they couldn't ask for food at the small road-stands that dotted the way. Nor could they ask directions to their destination. But, by dint of stubborn adherence to 

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