His words were a prediction. Before he had gone fifty yards more a squad of Kamali guardsmen advanced upon him. They wore skins of _Chabla_ cat and red headdresses formed of _patani_, the Venusian swamp flower. But Simms, though new to the Service, had had experience with interior villages before. Quietly he handed over his heat gun, let his wrists be bound, permitted himself to be escorted down the walk. The village opened before him. Simms saw a double row of rectangular huts formed of white _carponium_. In the center a round hut marked the quarters of the Oligarch and before this structure a taller Kamali stood, wearing a headdress formed of some brownish plastic. Simms bowed and held his message-tube in his bound hands before him in the formality expected. "Lieutenant Simms," he said, "Sixth Venusian Colonials, bound Post One to general headquarters at BeTaba. I bring you information, oh mighty one, which it will pay you to hear." The Oligarch's eyes contracted. He motioned Simms to continue. "Three Earth men," the lieutenant said, "are headed for your village. They...." His voice died off. Behind the Oligarch three familiar figures suddenly appeared in the doorway. In the foreground stood Halleck, smoking a cigarette, eyes filled with triumph. Behind him lounged Gately and Sterns. The heat-gun scar on the latter's face seemed deeper and redder than before. "I'm afraid you're too late, Simms," Halleck said. "I've already explained to his highness that you've come to this village to steal his _Deleon_ Salts. I think you know what that means." Gately laughed harshly. "You were pretty smooth back at the Jetty," he said. "But you forgot that the dehydrators would dispose of the fumes from your paralysis-pellet in a few moments. You forgot also that we travel by hydrocar." Simms' fists clenched. Suddenly an overpowering urge to smash Halleck's sneering face blinded all his reason. Before the Kamali guards could restrain him, he threw himself forward and planted a driving blow into the space-rat's jaw with his two lashed fists. But that was as far as Simms got. The Oligarch spoke a quick command then, and a rush of webbed feet sounded. Something heavy crashed down on the lieutenant's skull. He felt himself falling--into a pit of blackness. * * * * * Curiously, he was aware of no lapse of time when he opened his eyes. He lay on the floor of the a low ceilinged room that was bare of furnishings. Dizziness claimed him, and it was several minutes before he could gather sufficient strength to stand erect. He headed first for the door. It was locked, and the two circular windows were both grilled with stout metal bars. For the second time in a few hours Simms was a prisoner. He turned, surveyed the room with eyes of growing despair. An antiquated paralysis gun hang from a peg on one wall. He tore it free and flipped open the charge chamber. But as he had expected, it was green with mold and quite useless.