ain’t no invader’s ship. Look here. It’s made o’ wood.”
The belted man snorted.
“No kidding, boss. The shiny stuff’s just paint. Look at this burnt spot. And
here–this tube thing stickin’ out the back–it’s got ‘Bethlehem Steel Co.’
stamped on it.”
The leader frowned and strode past Marshall to look at the space-flyer himself.
“It’s a trick,” he said suspiciously. “What about that there name?” He pointed
to the legend on the bow. “Ick-er-uss. That ain’t no human name.”
Marshall laughed. “That’s the name of an old Greek, my friend–the first man to
ever fly.”
“Wright was the first man to fly,” snapped the belted man, but more doubtfully.
“Naw, he wasn’t,” another one of the group said. “The guy’s right, boss. This
Greek and some wop named Davinky both flew before Wright. I read about it
somewhere. The Greek had wax wings.”
“That’s true,” Marshall smiled, nodding at the man. “I’m glad somebody here
knows something.”
The tense group seemed to relax a little.
“Well, mebbe so,” the belted man said more graciously. “Let’s hear the story,
bud.”
Marshall explained quickly the circumstances which had sent him to Mars and kept
him there so long, taking the leader inside to show him the painfully-built gold
cage, two ornaments left over, and the magazines of exposed film. When he
finished there was awe on every face.
“So,” said the leader, spitting reflectively. “Before all this happened–” he
gestured at the wilderness and the ragged scarecrows of his men–“it would have
been a great thing. Let’s see: you left in forty-two, huh? You was lucky. You