The head lettuce, strawberries, and the cream which Dave Tower and Jarvis saw before them on the wooden tray in the cabin of the mysterious Russian were part of no dream, but a glorious reality. Their palates testified to that fact in prompt order.

“But where’d they come from?” inquired Dave, smacking his lips.

“Don’t ask,” grumbled Jarvis. “It’s enough they’re ’ere.”

Dave did ask and he did receive a reply. They had hardly finished their meal, when the friendly stranger was at hand, ready to show them the village.

The cabins they had seen were ordinary affairs, built of driftwood. But as they rounded a corner of rock, they were confronted by a very different scene. Beyond them stretched the broad, low roof of what appeared to be a vast greenhouse. And indeed that was exactly what it was. That another such greenhouse did not exist anywhere in the world, they were soon to learn.

“The Golden City,” murmured Jarvis.

“But the glass?” exclaimed Dave. “Where did you get it?”

“Not a square inch of glass in it,” smiled their host. “Come inside.”

Soon they breathed the peculiar, tropical dampness that fills every greenhouse. All about them were green things growing. To the right of them, prodigious potato plants thrived in beds of rich earth; to the left were beds of radishes, head lettuce and onions. Over their heads, suspended in cleverly woven baskets of leather, huge cucumbers swung aloft, their vines casting a greenish light over all. Far down the narrow aisle, numerous varieties of plants and small fruits were growing. Close beside them ran a wall of stone, which, strangely enough, gave off a mellow heat. Along the wall to the right ran a stone trough, and, in this, a murmuring stream of water went glittering by.

“Tell us the answer to this fable,” whispered Dave. “We are all ears, oh Wise One!”

“There’s not much story to tell,” said the host. “A political exile in northern Russia, having been farmed out as a slave to a trader, was carried with his master, against their wishes, on the angry waters of the great Lena River to the shores of the Arctic Sea. They struggled along the seashore until they came to this place, and here, for a time, they tarried.

“The exile was learned in many sciences. He perceived at once the vast possibilities of this place as a hostage for escaped exiles. A warm spring, flowing winter and summer, sprang from the rocky hillside; a ten-foot vein of coal cropped out from that same hill. Limestone rock promised material for plaster; an extraordinary deposit of rock rich in mica promised windows. Put your hand on the window beside you.”

“Mica,” murmured Dave, as he took his hand away.

“Mica,” repeated his host. “All our windows are double and made of mica.”

“Well, after facing many dangers, this exile and his master made their way back to the land in which the Czar and his nobles have condemned many honest and good people to live as slaves because of their beliefs. He went back to dream and to tell of his dreams to his friends. At first these doubted, but one by one they too began to dream. From that they took to planning and preparing. All manner of seeds were gathered and hoarded. Clothing and food were saved. One night, twenty-eight of them disappeared. They have never returned; they are here. This is the work of their hands. We live, as you see, with all the material needs supplied. We have a reindeer herd which supplies us clothing, milk and meat. This greenhouse gives us the rest.”

“You are Communists?” said Dave.

“We were Communists in theory, back in old Russia. Here we are Communists in practice.”

“Why do you not go back to old Russia now?”

“What? Leave this for exile?” The man’s face showed his astonishment.

It was Dave’s turn to be surprised. Could it be that this man and his companions did not know that, for more than two years, the Communists had been in power over the greater part of old Russia?

“Don’t you know,” he said slowly, “that the Czar is dead, that his government has been overthrown, that the Communists hold sway in your land and all exiles have been called home?”

“What?” The man sank weakly to a seat, covering his face with his hands.

“Why!” exclaimed Dave in astonishment. “Why don’t you leap and shout for joy? Your Communist theory has been put into practice.”

“And Russia? She must be in ruins!” He groaned miserably.

“Not quite that bad,” smiled Dave, “though God knows it has been bad enough.”

“Communism!” exclaimed the man springing up. “Communism will never do. It drives men to dry-rot. Here we have had Communism at its very best, a group of friends, each doing the best for the whole group at all times, but we have not been happy. We have been of all men the most miserable. Each one of us would give a year of this for one week spent in honest competition for a livelihood with other men.

“Competition! Competition! I cannot tell how it is, but I know it to be a truth now; honest competition is not only the life of trade, it is the life of man and without it man will die of inactivity which comes when interest dies.

“But my country, my poor Russia, my brave Russia! She will yet see her error and build up a government like your own, a free government of the people, a government not without its faults, but ever striving toward perfection. She must do it!”

He sank back exhausted by this impassioned utterance. For some time he did not move nor speak. At last he roused himself.

“And now, my friend,” he said, “you in your great balloon will take us somewhere, I am sure.”

“If we can get our engine started,” said Dave.

“We will help you.”

At that moment Jarvis, who had wandered down the aisle, came storming back.

“’Oo’s the two ’eathen that just went out the door?” he demanded.

“Just some natives that came here and wished to stay,” smiled the Russian. “When they came, they had been pretty badly torn up by a polar bear. We nursed them back to life and they have been so grateful for it that they have never left.”

“Good reason!” stormed Jarvis. “Gold! Gold! The City of Gold.”

“We have a little gold here,” smiled the Russian, “but precious little good it’s ever been to us.”

“Now mind y’. I’m a tellin’ y’,” stormed Jarvis, striking his fists together, “them’s no natural ’eathen. Them’s two spies from far down the coast. A polar bear me eye! An ice anchor it was that cut ’alf a ear off’n the little one. Them’s the lads that Dave and me ’ad the tussle with on the submarine more’n a year ago. I tell you they’re no natural ’eathen an’ I ’ates to think what’ll ’appen to ’em if I meets up with ’em again.”

Dave sprang to the door through which the men had just passed. They were not to be seen. The incident was disturbing. There could be little doubt but that Jarvis had identified the men as the same pair that had locked them in a prison made of walrus tusks the year before, and had fought with them later on the submarine. Now if they had recognized Jarvis, what might they not do? He continued to think of this while the Russian showed them through the most wonderful greenhouse in all the world.

“You see,” said their host, “we built this against the side of the cliff, at the point where the soft coal mine cropped out. We cut away enough of the coal to make room for a great stone furnace. From this furnace we ran heat tunnels of stone through the entire greenhouse. The work is all very simple. Coal is mined and loaded on trucks of wood, run on wooden tracks. From there it is shoveled into the furnace. We ran stone troughs through the greenhouse connecting them to the warm spring. This furnishes water for use in our homes, and for irrigating the rich soil we have brought from the tundra. At the same time, it keeps the air here sufficiently moist.”

“What a garden of Eden!” exclaimed Dave. “And you would leave all its safety and comfort to take a chance in the great disturbed world? Why will you be so foolish?”

The man turned a look of compassion upon him. “You will never know why, because you have never known what it is to live without the push and pull of many human beings striving for mastery all about you. In a well-populated land, this would all be very wonderful. Here it is nothing. Nothing!”

As he spoke, the man bent over and opened a small box made of heavy driftwood.

Having peered into its depth for a second, he uttered a sharp cry:

“The gold! It is gone!”

“Was there much?” asked Dave.

“Around a hundredweight. Who could have taken it? Yesterday we would have given it away for a song. To-day, with hopes of deliverance at hand, it is indispensable. Who could the robbers be?”

“The ’eathen, the unnatural, bloody, bloomin’ ’eathen,” exclaimed Jarvis. “Find them and you find the gold.”

The “unnatural ’eathen” were not to be found. Had the earth opened up and swallowed them, they could not have more completely vanished from the region of the City of Gold.

When a search far and wide had been made for them, with no results, attention was turned to the problem of a journey to other lands, for, even robbed of their gold as they were, these former exiles were eager to escape and to try their hand at making a living in more populated lands.

Three days were spent in futile attempts to start that oriental engine. When this was given up, it was decided that they should inflate the balloon, await a favorable wind and try their fortunes at drifting back to the land whence they came.

Not one of them but knew the perils of such an undertaking. Should the wind shift, they might be carried out over the sea. On the other hand, they might be forced to make a landing in the heart of the vast, barren lands, and in that case, they must surely starve. The balloon cabin would carry them all, but there would be little room left for provisions.

Not one of them hesitated. Boldest of them all was the beautiful girl who stuck close to Dave’s side, watching his every move with big admiring eyes, and, at spare times, learning to speak bits of his language.

The balloon was at last inflated. Provisions were loaded. The wind was beginning to shift. They would be off in a few hours. All were expectant. A tense nervousness gripped them, a sensation composed half of hope and half of despair. They were eating the evening meal in the common mess hall by the cliff when a sound utterly strange to the Russian’s ears smote the silent air. It was a thundering pop-pop-pop.

Dave turned white. Jarvis sprang to his feet with a wild howl on his lips.

“The ’eathen! The bloody, bloomin’ ’eathen. It’s the engine.”

He was right. It was the engine. It was thundering out its wild song of power and speed, and its voice was growing more distant.

As they crowded from the mess cabin, they saw the balloon hanging in midair. Watching they saw it move slowly southward. On the bridge by the cabin stood two small figures.

“The ’eathen! The bloody, bloomin’ ’eathen!” cried Jarvis.

“We might have known,” groaned Dave. “They’re oriental and so is the engine.”