He pressed the button that released them from stasis, rose, and went to the control panel. Powerful searchlights stabbed into the brown-grey mists. Below, the huge waves of the sea raced up and down. Then, they were near, lashing at the ship; then, the waves were gone, and the darkness of the sea, speared by the light beams, was around them. There were no fish to be startled by the frightening appearance of the strong lights.

Abruptly, one of the rays struck a projection, obviously not a natural formation. It reared 200 meters above the black ooze of the sea bottom. Moshe guided the vessel above the flat top of the tower, halted it above the exact center, and pressed another button.

"According to what Ziolsky told Scone, the port is set to activate only to a certain sonar code. Ziolsky was not sure the code would not be changed by now. But, if the code doesn't work, we can enter by another port, near the base, in our suits."

"It's working," said Moshe, pointing at the door sinking within the flat surface of the tower top. He lowered the ship past the entrance. The ponderous door stopped retreating directly in front of them and began to slide to one side within the inner wall of the great tube. The vessel dropped below it. Broward, looking at a screen which gave a view of the exterior from above, saw the door move ponderously but swiftly from the wall, then begin to move upwards, to reseal the opening.

The ship was stopped from further descent by a metal floor, but around them, piercing the walls, were four openings each large enough to admit a vessel twice the size of theirs. Moshe chose the one straight ahead of him; the forward beams showed them that the tunnel dipped sharply downwards. They followed this decline for perhaps 350 meters, then were floating on the surface of the water, and they were in a blaze of lights.

"Here's where we get out," said Moshe. He lifted the ship from the water and deposited it on the other side of one of the dozen docking berths. All of these were occupied by a vessel. Broward checked the radiation meter and found what he had expected. A background normal for this level.

"Do you suppose that there could still be people living down here?" he said.

"Why not?" replied Moshe. "If what you told me was valid, there were quite a few personnel here. The question is, did they stay here?"

A few minutes later, they left the ship. They were clad in coveralls and carried only automatics as weapons and a small gravity-propelled blaster for drilling in case they encountered any doors that refused to open to normal means. Near the entrance to a tunnel leading inwards was a small car, a Siberian Voluto. It was ready to go, so the two climbed in with Moshe at the controls. He found that it could not be lifted more than seven centimeters off the floor; evidently, it had a governor on the motor. He began to drive it down the tunnel, which was identified by Arabic numerals and Cyrillic characters. Broward, comparing these against the map given him by Scone, quickly found where they were and where they were going. At the first junction they came to, he directed Moshe to take the tunnel to the extreme left. Moshe obeyed, and they shot down it at top speed, 20 kilometers per hour. On either side of the tunnel were doors, all shut.

"I'd say everybody had left if it weren't for those ships in the dock," said Moshe. "So, where is everybody?"

"Mass suicide?" said Broward. "Not likely. There'd be a few that would live as long as they could draw a breath." Moshe shouted and stabbed his finger at a button and the little car stopped. Ahead of them, a plate of plastic had dropped down and completely blocked the tunnel. And the rear view mirror showed that the same thing had happened behind them.

"Good thing we brought the driller," said Moshe. He started to climb out of the car but stopped when a voice blared at them.

"Drop your weapons on the floor. Go to the shield nearest you; face it; raise your hands in the air. Remain immobile until you are told otherwise!"

The voice, coming from a loudspeaker located somewhere in the wall, spoke in the East Siberian Russian dialect. The two men loosened their belts, dropped them, and then proceeded to obey directions. No sooner had they faced the plastic wall than it rose to reveal four men on the other side. These held guns pointed at the two.

"Boris Voget!" said Moshe. "Don't you remember me, Yamanuchi?"

Voget, a tall gangling man with a Lincolnesque face, smiled and said, "Surely, it can't be the Japanese Jew? Moshe Yamanuchi! But I thought that you..." "I was on the Moon," Moshe said.

"I was sent by the commander of the surviving Soviet forces on the moon," replied Moshe. "He..." and Moshe hesitated.

Broward guessed why he did not know what to say next. Should he tell them that his sole reason for being here was to obtain the planet-shaker, that he had thought that every living thing on Earth was dead? What if these people here did not care to place themselves under the disposition of Scone? The Siberians were famous for their desire for independence, their underground movements. The experiment conducted by the Russians in transporting enormous numbers from every place in the world to settle here had been successful in that the colonists had succeeded in making the area a fertile one. But they had brought with them an anti-Russian feeling that had not died out in their descendants.

Perhaps, thought Broward, if they knew that a North American now held the whiphand on the moon, the Siberians might be friendly. But what would they think when they discovered that their supposedly secret area was known? What would they do? Much of what would happen would depend on what Yamanuchi and Broward told them.

After being searched, the two Moonmen were conducted to a large car and made to sit in the back seats while two Siberians held guns on them. A third talked softly into a wrist-radio. A man got into the Voluto and followed them through the various tunnels until they reached a large room that was at least a kilometer square and 40 meters high. This had been hewed out of the rock below the sea bottom.

"They're in the same situation as we on the Moon," said Moshe to Broward. "Except that nobody knows this place is occupied by living men."

Broward could see at once what Scone would think when —and if—he found out about this place. It would offer a refuge from the danger of the Martian attack.

Near a tall tunnel entrance topped with a legend: Chief of Operations, the car stopped. All got out, and the two Moonmen were led into the tunnel and thence through a series of other rooms until they came to a large office. On the way, they passed at least a dozen men and women, either working at desks or on sentinel duty. The goal was a big room with a large desk. Behind it sat a thick-bodied man with very broad shoulders and a large heavily-boned head. His skin was dark; his eyes, black; his nose, an eagle's. He was dressed in coveralls and was the only person the two had so far seen who was not in uniform.

Voget, Moshe's acquaintance, had talked enough during the ride to give them a little information on the man behind the desk. He was Dr. Pyotr, the former head of the scientific operations, a physicist. His father had been a Sioux Indian, and his mother was a Saudi Arabian. The day after the war, Pyotr, in company with a band of his scientific workers and some military personnel, had arrested the commander of the project, shot several soldiers and civilians who had resisted, and taken over the leadership of the only human beings left alive in the world—as far as they knew.

Broward, looking at Pyotr, saw a man who reminded him of Scone. He had the same aura of strength and of confidence and gave the same impression of a man who would knock down and crush any one who got between him and his goal.