ch any more. If they do, we'll hear them and we can hide."

"Who?" demanded Burckhardt.

The little man said, "Martians!" His voice cracked on the word and the
life seemed to go out of him. In morose tones, he went on: "Well, I
think they're Martians. Although you could be right, you know; I've
had plenty of time to think it over these last few weeks, after they
got you, and it's possible they're Russians after all. Still--"

"Start from the beginning. Who got me when?"

Swanson sighed. "So we have to go through the whole thing again. All
right. It was about two months ago that you banged on my door, late at
night. You were all beat up--scared silly. You begged me to help
you--"

"_I_ did?"

"Naturally you don't remember any of this. Listen and you'll
understand. You were talking a blue streak about being captured and
threatened, and your wife being dead and coming back to life, and all
kinds of mixed-up nonsense. I thought you were crazy. But--well, I've
always had a lot of respect for you. And you begged me to hide you and
I have this darkroom, you know. It locks from the inside only. I put
the lock on myself. So we went in there--just to humor you--and along
about midnight, which was only fifteen or twenty minutes after, we
passed out."

"Passed out?"

Swanson nodded. "Both of us. It was like being hit with a sandbag.
Look, didn't that happen to you again last night?"

"I guess it did," Burckhardt shook his head uncertainly.

"Sure. And then all of a sudden we were awake again, and you said you
were going to show me something funny, and we went out and bought a
paper. And the date on it was June 15th."

"June 15th? But that's today! I mean--"

"You got it, friend. It's _always_ today!"

It took time to penetrate.

Burckhardt said wonderingly, "You've hidden out in that darkroom for
how many weeks?"

"How can I tell? Four or five, maybe. I lost count. And every day the
same--always the 15th of June, always my landlady, Mrs. Keefer, is
sweeping the front steps, always the same headline in the papers at
the corner. It gets monotonous, friend."

IV

It was Burckhardt's idea and Swanson despised it, but he went along.
He was the type who always went along.

"It's dangerous," he grumbled worriedly. "Suppose somebody comes by?
They'll spot us and--"

"What have we got to lose?"

Swanson shrugged. "It's dangerous," he said again. But he went along.

Burckhardt's idea was very simple. He was sur