“Gone into the tunnel,” said the Alphian, as the crowd disappeared behind the cliff.
“What are we to do now?” asked Johnston. “We certainly can't go through with the sun.”
“Wait till the next trip,” grimly replied Branasko.
The rumbling noise from the big hole gradually died away, and the two men left their hiding-place.
“What is that?” asked Johnston. He pointed to the west, where a red light shone against the towering cliffs.
“It must be the internal fires,” answered Branasko, with a noticeable shudder. “Let's go nearer; I have heard that there is a point near here where one can look down into the Lake of Flame.”
“The Lake of Flame!” echoed the American, “What is that?” “It is where all of the dead of Alpha is cast by the black 'vultures of death.'”
Johnston said nothing, for it was difficult to keep up with the Alphian, who was bounding over rocks and dangerous fissures toward the red glow in the distance.
At every step the atmosphere got warmer, and they detected a slight gaseous odor in the air. Finally, after an arduous tramp of an hour, they climbed up a steep hill and looked sharply down into a vast bubbling lake of molten matter more than a thousand yards below. Branasko noticed a stone weighing several tons evenly balanced on the verge of the great gulf, and pushed it with both his hands. It rocked, broke loose from its slender hold on the cliff and bounded out into the red space. Down it went, lessen-ing as it sank till it became a mere black speck and then disappeared.
“That's where the dead go,” said Branasko gloomily.