"A ghost town!" Gail whispered. "An ancient, abandoned city!"
"I hope it's abandoned," I said.
We rode on. We had to find out, even at the risk of our lives.
The archway was just wide enough for the car. Still seeing no signs of life, we drove through it. Then we found that it had not been necessary to go through the arch at all. Above us was only half a dome. Beyond the gate we could see where it had been smashed and broken. Overhead, the cover ended with a jagged edge, as if some giant hammer had struck it with a terrific, shattering blow.
Before whatever disaster had struck the city, it had been a thriving community, at least a square mile in area. There were ruins of buildings, columns, monuments and narrow streets. The buildings were not like those on earth; they had ramps for entering and leaving the upper floors. The structures had no spires or architectural flourishes, but were strictly utilitarian—plain walls, narrow windows, and doors. Whatever had been used for glass was gone now, probably shattered when the city met its fate.
"Wonder how they raised that dome," said Gail.
"It might have been blown, like a bottle," I said.
We crossed the city and resumed our southward trip. Looking back at the dome, I noted that it was constructed of a shiny, glasslike substance which probably had been transparent at one time. But now it was coated with a fine layer of reddish dust. Centuries had passed since Martians lived here.
At the edge of the city stood a monument—a headless camel, a Martian, with his eight arms raised proudly above his spine.
"Glory wasn't unknown to the Martians, either," I said.