“The Purple Jug,” gasped Alf. “So help me, it’s the Purple Jug.” They saw it then.
The Purple Jug was the thing that had stood in the cavern back of “The Watchers.” It was the thing that had shattered the starlight.
It was a thing of beauty, of elegance and grace. A piece of art that snatched one’s breath away, that made a hurt rise in the throat and strangle one.
“It wasn’t like you said,” Alf accused Carter. “It wasn’t just a myth.”
Something flashed above the jug’s narrow lip, a silvery streak that struck fire with the light and soared like a burnished will-o’-the-wisp out into the room. Something that swelled and grew — grew until it was fist size and one could see it was a tiny space craft.
“One of the Martian ships!” yelled Lathrop. “One of them coming out of the subatomic!”
And as the last words fell from his lips, he stiffened, grew rigid with the knowledge that snapped into his brain.
“You’re quite right,” said Elmer. “The Purple Jug is the home of the Martian race. It contains the subatomic universe to which they fled.”
Lathrop glanced up, saw the shimmery blot that was Elmer up against the roof.