The arm was heavily, beautifully muscled. But where the hand should have been there was a leather harness and a hook of polished Martian bronze. * * * * * Campbell knew what had struck him. The thin, hard curve of that hook, more potent than the edge of any hand. The point pricked his throat, just over the pulse on the left side. The man said softly: "Lie still, little man, and answer." Campbell lay still. There was nothing else to do. He said, "I'm Thomas Black, if that helps. Who are you?" "What did Tredrick tell you to do?" "To get the hell out. What gives with you?" If that Taxil was spreading the word about him, he'd better hurry. Campbell decided to take a chance. The guy with the hook didn't seem to love Tredrick. "The black boy in the radio room told me to come aboard and wait. Seems he's sore at Tredrick, too. So am I. That makes us all pals, doesn't it?" "You lie, little man." The deep voice was quietly certain. "You were sent to spy. Answer!" The point of the hook put the exclamation point on that word. Campbell winced away. He wished the lug wouldn't call him "little man." He wouldn't remember ever having felt more hopelessly scared. He said, "Damn your eyes, I'm not lying. Check with the Taxil. He'll tell you." "And betray him to Tredrick? You're clumsy, little man." The hook bit deeper. Campbell's neck began to bleed. He felt all right again otherwise. He wondered whether he'd have a chance of kicking the man in the stomach before his throat was torn out. He tried to draw farther away, but the pipe wall wouldn't give. A woman's voice spoke then, quite suddenly, from beyond the green light. Campbell jumped. He hadn't even thought about anyone else being there. Now it was obvious that someone was holding the light. The voice said, "Wait, Marah. Zard is calling me now." It was a clear, low voice. It had music in it. Campbell would have loved it if it had croaked, but as it was it made his nerves prick with sheer ecstasy. The hook lifted out of the hole it had made, but it didn't go away. Campbell raised his head a little. The lower edge of the green light spilled across a pair of sandalled feet. The bare white legs above them were as beautiful as the voice, in the same strong clear way. There was a long silence. Marah, the man with the hook, turned his face partly into the light. It was oblong and scarred and hard as beaten bronze. The eyes in it were smoky ember, set aslant under a tumbled crest of tawny hair. After a long time the woman spoke again. Her voice was different this time. It was angry, and the anger made it sing and throb like the Kraylen's drum. "The Earthman is telling the truth, Marah. Zard sent him. He's here about the Kraylens." The big man--a Martian Drylander, Campbell thought, from somewhere around Kesh--got up, fast. "The Kraylens!"