The old man's white crest nodded. Campbell turned and went back down the path. The wind and the _liha_-trees, the hot blue night beat with the anger and the hate of the little man with the drum. Neither spoke until they were back in the hut. Campbell lit a smoky lamp. The old Kraylen drew a long, slow breath. "My almost-son," he said, "this is the last time I can give you refuge. When you are able, you must go and return no more." Campbell stared at him. "But, Father! Why?" The old man spread long blue-white hands. His voice was heavy. "Because we, the Kraylens, shall have ceased to be." Campbell didn't say anything for a minute. He sat down on the hide-frame cot and ran his fingers through his black hair. "Tell me, Father," he said quietly, grimly. The Kraylen's white crest rippled in the lamplight. "It is not your fight." Campbell got up. "Look. You've saved my neck more times than I can count. You've accepted me as one of your own. I've been happier here than any--well, skip that. But don't say it isn't my fight." The pale, triangular old face smiled. But the white crest shook. "No. There is really no fight. Only death. We're a dying tribe, a mere scrap of old Venus. What matter if we die now--or later?" Campbell lit a cigarette with quick, sharp motions. His voice was hard. "Tell me, Father. All, and quick." Opalescent eyes met his. "It is better not." "I said, 'tell me'!" "Very well." The old man sighed. "You would hear, after all. You remember the frontier town of Lhi?" "Remember it!" Campbell's white teeth flashed. "Every dirty stone in it, from the pumping conduits on up. Best place on three planets to fence the hot stuff." He broke off, suddenly embarrassed. The Kraylen said gently, "That is your affair, my son. You've been away a long time. Lhi has changed. The Terra-Venusian Coalition Government has taken it for the administration center of Tehara Province." Campbell's eyes, at mention of the Coalition Government, acquired a hot, hard brightness. He said, "Go on." The old man's face was cut from marble, his voice stiff and distant. "There have been men in the swamps. Now word has been sent us. It seems there is coal here, and oil, and certain minerals that men prize. They will drain the swamps for many miles, and work them." Campbell let smoke out of his lungs, very slowly. "Yeah? And what becomes of you?" The Kraylen turned away and stood framed in the indigo square of the doorway. The distant drum sobbed and shouted. It was hot, and yet the sweat turned cold on Campbell's body. The old man's voice was distant and throbbing and full of anger, like the drum. Campbell had to strain to hear it. "They will take us and place us in camps in the great cities. Small groups of us, so that we are divided and split. Many people will pay to see us, the strange remnants of old Venus. They will pay for our skills in the curing of _leshen_-skins and the writing of quaint music, and tattooing. We will grow rich."