“But how did you know what to do?” Thwaite asked.
“It wasn’t my discovery,” said the linguist soberly. “Our remote ancestors met this threat and invented a weapon against it. Otherwise man might not have survived. I learned the details from the Martian records when I succeeded in translating them. Fortunately the Martians also preserved a specimen of the weapon our ancestors invented.”
He held up the little reed flute and the archeologist’s eyes widened with recognition.
Dalton looked out across the dark swamp-water, where the ripples were fading out. “In the beginning there was the voice of evil—but there was also the music of good, created to combat it. Thank God that in mankind’s makeup there’s more than one fundamental note!”