Some power ruled his mind—had overcome it while he was unconscious. For some reason, he had been allowed to regain a very limited consciousness—just so much and no more! Perhaps he would learn the answer to this mystery. Why had the white mist not destroyed him?
A murmur of voices beat against his ears. He'd been given back his hearing! The voices were low, soft. They spoke in a language foreign to him—Martian he guessed. Words faded away. There was a moment's silence, then the chant he had heard before.
Above Barry, a voice spoke to him in inter-planetary Esperanto:
"Son of Earth, you are not as the other Earthmen who come here to rob this unhappy planet, and slay its children."
The voice was that of a woman, clear, musical, unutterably sweet—pathetically sad. It paused; spoke again. A new note crept into the words, ringing, thrilling:
"Go your way—leave in peace, but travel far from this planet. The Mist of Mars will destroy all those who remain to despoil and murder here."
Williams felt consciousness slipping from him once more. He struggled to speak. He must speak! These people must be told of his mission here!
But his lips would not move. Struggle was useless. Feeling was gone from his body. The last sound he heard was the voice of a man, deep and full:
"Heed the warning of the Mother of Mist. This once you have been spared."