THE SOUND OF BUGLES
by
ROBERT MOORE WILLIAMS
THE SHIP from earth arrived in midafternoon. Kennedy, working himself and his two assistants into nervous exhaustion setting up recording instruments around the rectangle of white sand, saw the ship come in. At first he was afraid it was going to land in the rectangle where the Martians, at this moment, were forbidding even a fly to trespass, but the pilot changed course slightly and set it down, with much blowing of landing jets, less than a quarter of a mile away.
Kennedy was relieved. It had taken a lot of talking and, considering the language difficulties involved, a lot of arm waving and picture drawing, to get Try or to give him permission to set up his recording instruments so near the rectangle.
The Martian had not fully liked the idea of the recording instruments and Kennedy suspected that if Tryor had really understood their purpose, which was to trace the lines of force flowing from the machinery that must be hidden somewhere here in this city, and thus locate the machinery itself, he would have liked it even less. Kennedy wondered what the Martian would have said, and done, if some blundering human had landed a space ship in this restricted area.
For that matter, why had the ship landed here at all? Traxia was a small, unimportant city, well off the routes of even the tourists rich enough and hardy enough to make a trip to Mars.
Watching, he saw the port swing open. Three men emerged.
. . .
