f a quality as fine as any he had seen
amongst all the treasures brought out of Mexico, Yucatan, and Peru
combined!

But the gold was not the only thing. If Kirby was human enough to think
in terms of treasure, he was also enough of an amateur anthropologist to
hold his breath over the carvings on the yellow surface.

First he recognized the ancient symbols of Sun and Moon. And then a
representation, semi-realistic, semi-conventionalized, of Quetzalcoatl,
the Feathered Serpent, known in all the annals of primitive Mexican
religions.

Good enough.

But the mere symbols by no means told the whole story of the cylinder.
The workmanship was archaic, older than any Aztec art Kirby knew, older
than Toltec, older far, he ventured to guess, than even earliest archaic
Mayan carvings.

God, what a find!

* * * * *

For a moment it seemed almost impossible that he, Freddie Kirby, native
of Kansas, unromantic aviator, should have been the one to discover this
relic of an unknown, lost race. Yet the cylinder of gold was there, in
his hand.

After a long minute Kirby looked around him, then listened.

From up the canyon came the provocative rumble of the geyser. It was
closer now, and Kirby, glancing at his watch which had been spared to
him in the Wasp's crash, noted that just forty-four minutes had passed
since the last eruption. There was nothing to be done about the bleached
skeleton. So, tucking the precious cylinder into his tunic, Kirby
headed on up the gash of a canyon.

Far away indeed seemed the neat, maple-shaded asphalt street, the rows
of parked cars and farm wagons, the telephone office and drug store and
bank, of the Kansas town where he had grown up.

Time passed until again he heard the geyser, and again was dizzied by
the perfume. As the fragrance--close and powerful now--died away, he
flailed with one arm at a two-foot bat which flapped close to his head.

And then he trudged his dogged way around a deeply shadowed bend, and
found the chasm not only almost wholly dark, but narrower than it had
been at any previous point.

"Holy mackerel," Kirby groaned. "Phew! If this keeps up, I--"

He stopped. His jaw dropped.

"Oh, hell!"

The beetling walls narrowed in until the gash was scarcely fifteen feet
wide. Further progress was barred by a smooth wall which rose sheer in
front of him.

* * * * *

Kirby did not know how many seconds pa