His father and mother, his sister, his father's collaborators in the government, and representatives of the whole community filed down the valley to the entrance where Bidagha stood, and each person, clad for this occasion only in a robe of animal fur, as he approached the opening extended his hands to show that he had removed his wrist band, and lifted his arms to show that no material product of modern technology was being taken inside to profane Cave. They all respected the ancient proverb, "What Immortals want new, they make new." Each one lit his candle at Bidagha's flame, and silently took his place in the circle. Pehn had not been inside Cave since his early childhood, but it seemed a familiar place, since its description formed a part of many of Zenob's myths, and was part of all her history. The age-old figures scratched on the walk and filled in with colored earths, had been made by his remote ancestors at a time when their only weapons were the bows and arrows pictured there, and the stone-tipped spears with which they hunted their game. In the flickering light of the fire he could recognize the lithe _toda_, and the great-tusked _khalmat_, animals which had been extinct for many ages. How vividly Old Ones had portrayed these animals, and the ritual of their hunts! The wood fire, which Bidagha had kindled with a primitive wooden drill, burned on the hearth, and above his head through a rift in the ceiling, Pehn could see a narrow band of sky and a sprinkling of stars. "Keep your head pointed towards fire," said Bidagha, "and lie quiet. Ritual has no value unless we observe it strictly." He gave Pehn a warm potion from an earthenware cup, which made him feel sleepy. Bidagha began to chant, his bass voice reverberating from wall to wall, each syllable a sonorous musical note which was answered at intervals by the watching group of well-wishers. A wooden bowl filled with coarsely ground grain was passed from one person to another, and each one placed a few grains on his tongue, some on his forehead, and threw a token pinch of the flour over his left shoulder. An hour passed, two; the stars above shifted their position, and still Bidagha chanted, never hesitating, never stumbling over the archaic words. Midnight passed and the stars grew pale. Through the roaring in his ears, Pehn heard the Healer kneel on the rock floor beside him; then he felt Bidagha's strong fingers on his shoulder. "How is it with you, my son?" Pehn groaned, unable to speak. The pain was not alleviated--it was greater then ever. The soles of Bidagha's sandals scraped as he stood up again. "Bring knife!" he called. In his roaring darkness, Pehn stirred. Vaguely he sensed the murmuring of the watchers. Then someone else came near, and Bidagha's voice rose again. "Immortals, bless knife!"