An oval running track was perched on stilts at one side; another track stood vertically, as though races might be held on its inner surface like a squirrel cage. People clustered both structures. There was a single row of flimsy fifty-foot high poles, set upright in a line; ten of them, at intervals of ten feet or so. Gymnasium apparatus. A man clung now to the bending top of each of them. Upon every point of vantage, people were clinging. The top of the lattice fence, which was at least fifty feet high, held a fringe of young men and girls perched precariously there, laughing. Occasionally one would fall off and come climbing nimbly back. In the purple moonlight it was a scene of confusion. The audience was assembling, leaping from the gateway, climbing to where space seemed to offer. A man and girl leaped hand in hand. They missed their intended perch and fell a dozen feet in a heap. A great shout of laughter went up. We entered with our heavy, dragging tread. People craned to see us. A murmur rose. A few girls called to Zetta, or to Hulda. Some shouted derisively. We were in a deep shadow of the gate. In the gloom, father stumbled, fell heavily. A flimsy empty seat broke where he went down; Dan kicked another seat to fragments as he jumped to pick father up. "I'm all right, Dan. Thanks." His words were almost drowned in the jeers around us. "We'll sit here," I whispered to Kean. "Here near the gate. Go ahead now, we'll wait here. Come back as soon as you can." We took these first empty seats, just inside the gate. Platforms and poles partly obstructed our view; but we could see enough. The rostrum from which Graff was to speak was in clear sight--a platform in the center of the stadium, raised about a hundred feet. A bank of soft lights up there cast a lurid purple glow which did little more than intensify the moonlight. Brauns were crowded up there; among them I could see the towering figures of Graff and Brea. We sat in a line; father, Hulda and Zetta were at one end, we three conspirators nearer the gate. Behind Zetta, our two insects were lying prone on the surface of a vine. The thought occurred to me then, as it had several times before--these insects were not armed. There were police guards all over the stadium; some seemed to have a single small weapon--it was the only weapon I had ever seen in Garla. I had my dirk in its sheath at my belt; and the Essen automatic in its holster--with the black cloak shrouding them. But I wondered what was the nature of the police guards' weapon. Zetta was next beside me. In all the turmoil of my thoughts, I was wholly conscious of it. I leaned over her. "Zetta, when he begins talking, you'll have to translate for us." "Yes," she whispered. Her long white hair lay on the seat between us. In the darkness my fingers found a lock of it and clung. She did not know it--or perhaps she did? I fancied her shoulder bent toward me.