Now, to call a person a “mathlab” is one of the worst insults that can be offered on the planet Poros. It is as bad as to call a man a skunk, a sandless puppy, and a cur all at once in the United States, or a _chameau_ in France. And although the insult was directed at me, yet it was spoken to my friend Doggo and it was he who had been really insulted. Doggo kept his temper admirably, but answered the sneer with another sneer: “You forget yourself to speak so to a superior officer. My only explanation is that you have been chewing some saffra root.” The saffra is a peculiar narcotic plant which is cultivated on Poros both for its anesthetic qualities and also for use in much the same way as alcohol is employed on earth. So that Doggo had virtually accused Satan of being drunk, which was both a charitable way of explaining Satan’s insubordinate language and a deadly insult in itself. Satan clicked his jaws in rage, and hurled at Doggo the words: “I’ll get your number.” To which Doggo calmly replied: “I’ll get yours.” And to my surprise, the two rushed at each other and started fighting. Never before having seen a duel between two ant-men, I did not then know how common duels are, nor that they transcend all rank. The proper formality for challenging to a duel is to say, as Satan had, “I’ll get your number,” and the proper formality for accepting the challenge is to speak as Doggo had spoken. The battle was a sort of combined wrestling bout and fencing match, the two huge creatures tumbling over and over on the floor, each trying to get his mandibles at the other’s neck and each parrying with his own mandibles the thrusts of the other. Finally, to my horror, Satan slipped by Doggo’s guard and fastened his jaws on Doggo’s throat. He could easily and instantly have severed Doggo’s head, but he apparently preferred to hold him for a moment and gloat over his victim, and this delay gave me the opportunity to come out of my coma, seize a chair, and rush to Doggo’s rescue. But, to my surprise, it was Doggo himself who ordered me back. “This is a duel to the death,” he said, “and it is not etiquette for any one to interfere.” Satan turned his horrid eyes to me and remarked: “Wait a few minutes until I finish your friend, and I will get your number, too.” “Go to it!” I replied in English, not then knowing the correct formalities, but being perfectly willing to try my chances again with my old enemy. “What was that peculiar remark?” asked Satan. “Mathlab language? Or perchance the way that half-wits talk on Minos?” Keeping my temper, I answered: “What I said was for you to come and get my number if you can.” This diversion proved unfortunate for Satan. He should have severed Doggo’s head while he had him in his power; for, while his attention was distracted by his conversation with me, Doggo suddenly wrenched loose and with a snap rolled Satan’s head upon the floor.