She threw her arms around him and pillowed her head on his shoulder. He held her happily, his blood racing. This was a different girl from the hard and casual newspaper woman. Suddenly, she recovered.
"Sorry. Guess I have the old time jitters—I'll try not to let it happen again." She covered her gloved left hand with her right and turned away. "See what a hopeless pitiful mob," she said, after a moment.
"Yes, and I wonder what next. I've read that most of the old dwelling places are underground. The Martians made their last stand against desolation in cave cities."
"There's an entrance."
"Yes, and here come the guards."
The long procession of the lame, the blind, and the sick was soon in weaving motion over red sand toward a great metal door set into a low cliff. Their oxygen helmets bobbed almost comically. There were few guards and these made little attempt at restraint. John and Hilda went hand in hand toward a group in the lead, the seemingly able bodied ones.
"I suppose most of these are alcoholics and drug addicts," John remarked, absently, as they followed.
"Maybe this will really cure them. They certainly can't escape or bribe their way to intoxication here."
"What's the use of getting cured on this desert?"
"Don't give up, John. Oh, you're thinking that there will be no more Elks Club balls!" She took his arm and smiled derisively.