A hard-thewed, ice-eyed youngster recognized him first. Steel fingers closed on Rod’s wrist. “Rod Harrow!” he whispered. “I’m Don Rickter. I thought you were holding out on Earth.” Rod kept his eyes on a card game that had started. “I left our hideaway in the Rockies when I found out how I could help up here. There was no way of getting here except by the slave route.” He paused thoughtfully. “We haven’t been idle on Earth--the few of us that are left.” “But, man!” Rickter was dubious. “We’re trapped here. Right now those devils are watching us. We can’t even talk, but that they know about it. Sometimes even before we say anything. I swear they can read our thoughts.” “It’s not quite as bad as that. How about getting some of our old gang together for a game of cards?” “Just as you say, Rod. But it won’t do any good to talk business.” Rod grinned. “Remember the game we all played when we were kids?” He emphasized his remark with a quick gesture. Rickter’s answering grin was sufficient response. “I remember,” he said. “There’s a grey-eyed girl around here. Name’s Mona.” “Oh, Mona Darlanan. She’s hipped on getting that adopted brother of hers out of the mines. The Lord knows why! He’s a cowardly little wretch.” “Better keep her from kibitzing if you can. She might have played the same game ... and I don’t think she can be trusted.” The first hand had hardly been dealt when Rod threw his cards down and called for a new deck. He emphasized his dissatisfaction by shaking his hand with index finger outstretched, middle finger and thumb conjoined. Then he clenched his fist and shook it at the intent players first with the thumb down and then with the thumb up. His fingers stretched heaven-ward, except for the index finger when he swore the deck they were using was too dirty. Don Rickter looked up in mock disgust. The icy glint in his eyes deepened. Rod centered his displeasure on him. After a slight pause, Rickter argued back. His own gestures were just as aggressive. Soon all of them joined in. The chatter continued, hand after hand, but the real discussion remained in the deaf and dumb sign language--the game all of them had played on Earth before Earth succumbed to the tetrarchs. “I let myself get caught,” Rod commenced, “because of a note smuggled through to me on a tetrarchian space ship.” “Sounds like a trap.” Rickter was succinct. “We couldn’t get a message out from here.” “I don’t think it came from here.” Rod was equally terse. “I think it came from the survivors of the Hunt.” “What!” Rickter almost forgot to use his hands. “There can’t be any survivors.” “But there are,” Rod insisted. “They’ve learned how to live on Tetrarch IV even when the oxygen in their space suits is exhausted.” At this point a rustling was heard among the gathering kibitzers. The crowd was drawing back in sullen anger while a tall, black-robed, cadaverous personage forced his way through.