Sime Hemingway, of the I. F. P., strikes at the insidious interests that are lashing high the war feeling between Earth and Mars.
e ordnance depots in which were stored new and improved killing tools that had long been idle in that irksome interplanetary peace.
They flew on, over the desert, until the Gray Mountains loomed on the horizon. On, over the tumbled rocks, interspersed with the strange red thorny vegetation common in the Martian desert.
Far below them, in a ravine, a cylindrical building was now visible, and toward this the car began to drop. It landed on a level space before the structure. A sliding gate opened, and the car wheeled into a sort of courtyard, protected from the cold of night by an arching roof of glass.
Sime was hustled out and led into an office located on the lower floor of the fortification, or whatever the structure was.
As he saw the man who sat at the desk he gave a startled explanation.
* * * * *
The elderly, white-haired man smiled. He brushed back his hair with a characteristic gesture, and his twinkling blue eyes bored into those of t