He moaned, opened his eyes weakly and rose up on one elbow.
"Who are you?" Jimmy demanded.
At first his words were unintelligible. Then the haze which clouded his eyes cleared somewhat.
"Name's Hanley," he said weakly. "Phil Hanley. Represent the Martian Globe. Hamilton Garth's down there. We've got to stop him."
Hanley struggled with short jerky sentences. "Garth blasted me with a heat gun. Tried to do it once before in my own apartment, but I managed to get away from him. This time he thought he'd done for me. He's after the figurines. By the blazing eternal! Are you the Nebula?"
Six hundred and thirty-nine steps led to the bottom of the shaft. In places the rock had crumbled so badly the greatest care had to be taken, or a misstep would have meant plunging into the abyss. Curiously, no sand seemed to have drifted here; the air was dry and clear.
Hanley, still unsteady from the burn he had received, examined the hieroglyphics on the stone walls with puzzled eyes.
"This place must have been discovered before," he said. "It isn't possible that this shaft could have remained here all these years without someone stumbling upon it."
Linda nodded. "It's presence has been known, of course," she replied. "It leads to an underground cavern that stretches for miles under the surface. It's the burial place of the first dynasty Martians. But there are many such places below the Red Desert country. Always it has been thought they contained nothing of value."