Like all Martians, they thrilled to a scene of fearful beauty, and they stood around the quartz bowl for a long time, not speaking, merely watching the twin continents come into full view. None noticed old Thak's eyes peering desperately at the image of the third planet. Nor did they see the look of utter despair that grew in his face. They were too intent on the strange scene.
It was Rofan who first felt that something was wrong. The novelty was wearing off, and an elusive thought made him uncomfortable. Something was wrong with the picture ... what was it?
Suddenly he realized. He turned to Thak. "But—the lights, Mor Thak? The signals—"
Thak's face looked as old as Mars itself as he gazed at his pupil. He started to speak several times before he could manage.
"We have failed," he said, in heavy tones. "Our signals must have been too weak for the beings of the blue planet to detect. I had hoped—"
He arose and looked sadly into the evening sky. "I had hoped I was wrong. For two years now—our years—I have watched through my small telescope, and the lights have been disappearing, one by one, sometimes, but more often several at a time. I thought it was the weakness of my instrument. I was wrong. Every light on the blue planet has been blacked out..."
His voice was a low wail. "And—the blacking out of those lights means a blackout of life on Mars. A planet-wide blackout...."