Marching Sands
could play a poker hand and watch other men without looking at them directly.
There was a certain melancholy mirrored in the expressionless face. The melancholy that is the toll of hardships and physical suffering. This, coupled with great, though concealed, physical strength, was the curious trait of the man in the chair, Captain Robert Gray, once adventurer and explorer, now listed in the United States Army Reserve.
He had the voyager's trick of wearing excellent clothes carelessly, and the army man's trait of restrained movement and speech. He was on the verge of a vital decision; but he spoke placidly, even coldly. So much so that the man at the desk leaned forward earnestly.
"No, we don't want you to fail, Captain Gray. We want you to find out the truth and to tell us what you have found out."
"Suppose there is nothing to discover?"
"We will know we are mistaken."
"Will that satisfy you?"
"Yes."
Captain "Bob" Gray scrutinized a scar on the back of his right hand. It had been made by a Mindanao kris, and, as the edge of the kris had been poisoned, the skin was still a dull purple. Then he smiled.
"I thought," he said slowly, "that the lost people
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