have such powers—or devices, to hypnotize four men flying thirty-thousand feet above the earth at eight-hundred miles an hour?"

"No power on earth," Martin said softly. "The Panamint Indians won't go near those mountains." He gestured to the tinted window and beyond, to where the great range of jagged mountains gleamed luridly orange and purple under the slanting rays of the desert sun. "They have positive beliefs—not legends—about beings from other worlds who dig in the hills for shining metals.... Who have great ships that fly. Beings who can make a man who comes too near die of thirst even though he carries water at his belt. Beings who can control the minds of men." He hesitated. "That's why they named those mountains—the Superstitions."

"I'm afraid you'll have to find a better explanation than that," the general said stiffly.

"You have the written reports of the radio men on duty," Martin said. "They all heard Ryan, Morelli and Sayers talking. They back up every word I've said. You asked my opinion and I've told you. Someone—something, didn't want us snooping around when they weren't prepared for it—and they simply drew us away by means of delusion or mind control of some kind."

"We've photographed every inch of this entire corner of the state," the general said. "You have stated that the camera doesn't lie. We have observed nothing unusual in any of the many excellent photographs made of the area you flew over yesterday."

Martin smiled briefly. "You observed nothing because they were ready for you. It wouldn't be much of a job for them to camouflage, if they're prepared in advance. I imagine they intercept every message in and out of here."

"You make it sound very plausible," the general said sourly. "But we're looking for something besides words."

Martin rose and his lean figure towered over them. "I held this out because I wanted you both to understand what line of reasoning made me go back. I sound insane because, of course, what I've said isn't pleasant for human minds to accept."

He brought out a large composite, constructed of carefully joined-together aerial photographs pasted on a board. "Yesterday, after I saw the smashed ships, and while I waited for the base to confirm, I went back over the route I'd taken while following the will-o-the-wisp disc—on auto-pilot. This time, I shot downwards—at the earth." He slid the composite around so that it faced the two men. They came erect, 

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