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Martha remembered the closed door; on the first survey, they hadn’t attempted opening it. Now it was burned away at both sides and lay, still hot along the edges, on the floor of the big office room in front. A floodlight was on in the room inside, and Lattimer was going around looking at things while a Space Force officer stood by the door. The center of the room was filled by a long table; in armchairs around it sat the eighteen men and women who had occupied the room for the last fifty millennia. There were bottles and glasses on the table in front of them, and, had she seen them in a dimmer light, she would have thought that they were merely dozing over their drinks. One had a knee hooked over his chair-arm and was curled in foetuslike sleep. Another had fallen forward onto the table, arms extended, the emerald set of a ring twinkling dully on one finger. Skeletons covered with leather, Gloria Standish had called them, and so they were–faces like skulls, arms and legs like sticks, the flesh shrunken onto the bones under it.

“Isn’t this something!” Lattimer was exulting. “Mass suicide, that’s what it was. Notice what’s in the corners?”

Braziers, made of perforated two-gallon-odd metal cans, the white walls smudged with smoke above them. Von Ohlmhorst had noticed them at once, and was poking into one of them with his flashlight.

“Yes; charcoal. I noticed a quantity of it around a couple of hand-forges in the shop on the first floor. That’s why you had so much trouble breaking in; they’d sealed the room on the inside.” He straightened and went around the room, until he found a ventilator, and peered into it. “Stuffed with rags. They must have been all that were left, here. Their power was gone, and they were old and tired, and all around them their world was dying. So they just came in here and lit the charcoal, and sat drinking together till they all fell asleep. Well, we know what became of them, now, anyhow.”

Sid and Gloria made the most of it. The Terran public wanted to hear about Martians, and if live Martians couldn’t be found, a room full of dead ones was the next best thing. Maybe an even better thing; it had been only sixty-odd years since the Orson Welles invasion-scare. Tony Lattimer, the discoverer, was beginning to cash in on his attentions to Gloria and his ingratiation with Sid; he was always either making voice-and-image talks for telecast or listening to the news from the home planet. Without question, he had become, overnight, the most widely known archaeologist in history.

“Not that I’m interested in all this, for myself,” he disclaimed, after listening to the telecast from Terra two days after his discovery. “But this is going to be a big thing for Martian archaeology. Bring it to the public attention; dramatize it. Selim, can you remember when Lord Carnarvon and Howard Carter found the tomb of Tutankhamen?”

“In 1923? I was two years old, then,” von Ohlmhorst chuckled. “I really don’t know how much that publicity ever did for Egyptology. Oh, the museums did devote more space to Egyptian exhibits, and after a museum department head gets a few extra showcases, you know how hard it is to make him give them up. And, for a while, it was easier to get financial support for new excavations. But I don’t know how much good all this public excitement really does, in the long run.”

“Well, I think one of us should go back on the Cyrano, when the Schiaparelli orbits in,” Lattimer said. “I’d hoped it would be you; your voice would carry the most weight. But I think it’s important that one of us go back, to present the story of our work, and what we have accomplished and what we hope to accomplish, to the public and to the universities and the learned societies, and to the Federation Government. There will be a great deal of work that will have to be done. We must not allow the other scientific fields and the so-called practical interests to monopolize public and academic support. So, I believe I shall go back at least for a while, and see what I can do–“