The figure on the throne voiced a curt order; the one who had brought them stepped forward. His voice was raised in the same discordant, singing tone that leaped and wandered from note to note. It conveyed ideas--that was apparent; it was a language that he spoke. And the central figure above nodded a brief assent as he finished. Their captor took an arm of each in his long fingers and pushed them roughly forward to stand alone before the battery of hard eyes. * * * * * Now the crowned figure addressed them directly. His voice quavered sharply in what seemed an interrogation. The men looked blankly at each other. Again the voice questioned them impatiently. Sykes and McGuire were silent. Then the young flyer took an involuntary step forward and looked squarely at the owner of the harsh voice. "We don't know what you are saying," he began, "and I suppose that our lingo makes no sense to you--" He paused in helpless wonderment as to what he could say. Then-- "But what the devil is it all about?" he demanded explosively. "Why all the dirty looks? You've got us here as prisoners--now what do you expect us to do? Whatever it is, you'll have to quit singing it and talk something we can understand." He knew his words were useless, but this reception was getting on his nerves--and his arm still tingled where the scarlet one had gripped him. It seemed, though, that his meaning was not entirely lost. His words meant nothing to them, but his tone must have carried its own message. There were sharp exclamations from the seated circle. The one who had brought them sprang forward with outstretched, clutching hands; his face was a blood-red blotch. McGuire was waiting in crouching tenseness that made the red one pause. "You touch me again," said the waiting man, "and I'll knock you into an outside loop." The attacker's indecision was ended by a loud order from above. McGuire turned as if he had been spoken to by the leader on the throne. The thin figure was leaning far forward; his eye were boring into those of the lieutenant, and he held the motionless pose for many minutes. To the angry man, staring back and upward, there came a peculiar optical illusion. The evil face was vanishing in a shifting cloud that dissolved and reformed, as he watched, into pictures. He knew it was not there, the thing he saw; he knew he was regarding something as intangible as thought; but he got the significance of every detail. He saw himself and Professor Sykes; they were being crushed like ants beneath a tremendous heel; he knew that the foot that could grind out their lives was that of the one on the throne. * * * * *