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of some dark green substance—and that it was
larger a little than I had supposed the night before.
    Mac’s
illness worse—no sign of recovery from the new bout that had assailed him. Two
days  . . . and in
those two days, before he did recover, and I could tell him, the darkness on
the horizon had intensified—was something that moved —and
moved nearer and nearer toward us.  . . .
    Among
the Beautiful People a rising sense of uneasiness—a continuing quivering fear
from the cactus plants nearby.
    Mac’s
recovery at last; and an intensification of our experiments to contact you on
Earth. The exposed seam of mineral deposit in the foothills: our hastily rigged
transmitter here in the cabin of the Albatross, the
leads going down to the seam  . . . night
after night—my messages into space, as always and always the menace approached
across the plains. At last the first imperfect return messages—the fabulous
coincidence of the airstrip  . . . and so
I have told you our story as always It has
drawn nearer  . . .
    We
have not dared to move from the ship. Malu now with us—but Malu is able to move
outside on occasions, through the double air-lock door, for the yellow spores
have no effect upon him other than in an attempt to control him mentally. The
others gone—the city in the hills abandoned. Only Malu and ourselves  . . . only—The Creeping Canal! The dark green, viscid line approaching across the
plain, nearer and nearer! They control— they control
it: the Vivores  . . .  !
    The
Canal—the long serpentine line of it, the waving traveling swamp  . . . closer
and closer and finally surrounding us. And at last, the first of Them .
. . the swamp now all around, all around, and we dare not move from the cabin.
As it has been this past ten days while I have struggled to continue contact
with you. I dare not relax, dare not. They control— they
can control  . . .  !
     

     
     
    I
saw the first—some days ago I saw the first. There, in the swamp surrounding,
in the hot steam of it  . . . white, monstrous. Discophora! The great white monstrous jelly—and waiting, waiting for us, waiting for us,
waiting  . . .
    I
will not— will not! —the
children, the children  . . . !
    (Message broken, and nothing for four
nights; then some further disjointed gibberish, quite unintelligible; and at
last, suddenly clear, one final desperate cry across the silent void of space,
the broken, helpless message as I have already described it in my own first
chapter:)
     

     
     
    . . .   Save us—in heaven’s name try to
save us! There is one way—one way only. We are lost—you must save us.
Somehow—come somehow. Bring the children—the three children. It is the only way
to save us. I cannot, cannot, cannot explain. Only bring the children, somehow.
That will save us, that alone. It does not matter how long. We
are safe, safe, for many months, years perhaps. But we will perish at the last
if you do not bring them. Do not ask why. Find some way—some way.
Kalkenbrenner—try perhaps Kalkenbrenner. Bring Paul and Jacqueline and Michael.
Ask no questions—no time, no time to answer; but bring those three to Mars or
we are lost  . . .   !
     

     
    Then silence. From that moment onward,
silence absolute. Never again did our small receiver by the airstrip chatter
its thin rare messages from across the void.
    In the chill of the early dawn we
regarded each other, white-faced—Mackellar and Archie, Katey and myself, the
two young people who had joined us and attended the few final sessions when the
broken messages were coming through.
    We regarded each other, the silence filled by the low sullen roar of the Atlantic
beyond the moonlit airstrip. Our thoughts were full of indefinable nightmare—a
sense of intolerable danger to our friends so many millions of miles away. And
of resolution. We did not understand—how could we?—what could it mean that
only the presence of the three young