The tall, gaunt figure gripped the prison bars in two big hands. Karl Venard, Ex-Lieutenant, strained hawk-like features outward, his thin lips twisted. He turned suddenly to snarl, "This is it, Louie. We're the only two Guardsmen left in this sad hole. We'll be among this draft. Start praying." Louie Larson, the little man who still, somehow, managed to be overweight in spite of being half-starved, shivered. "The least you can do is die like a man," snarled Venard. "You're a disgrace to the Guards." The fat little man grabbed Venard's ragged sleeves. "Remember what the grapevine said last night, Karl? It said that the Underground on Mars had managed to blow up the Zharkon's throne room and him in it. It said the Zharkon had been injured, maybe killed, that his double-brain was on the blink. Maybe that's right, Karl. Maybe it might really have happened! Gad, Karl. If they've done that, I don't care about dying. Knowin' that, death would be a pleasure, almost. Tell me you think it's so, Karl. I'll not be scared any more, if you'll say you believe it's true." "How the devil should I know," murmured Venard. "I doubt it. Maybe there is an Underground operating on Mars as efficiently as the one here on Earth, but I doubt it. The Marties fell for that Zharkonism mania like a degravitated dwarf star. And even if they do have a working Underground organization there how could they ever get into the Zharkon's throne room? That's carrying wishful thinking a little too far, Kewpie Doll. Forget it." "Listen," sputtered the little man desperately, "how about them Martians who went to the Academy with us? They'd never fall for Zharkonism. They was semantically-trained, too. They're too smart for all this myth and legend stuff. I'll bet every solar credit I might have had that Jhongan could have gotten into that throne room." Venard's harsh features softened for an instant. Jhongan, the Martian, had studied in the Academy during the golden days of the Solar Democratic Federation. Yes, Martians like Jhongan would never have become Zharkonites. But there were too few of them. His hardened mouth curled cynically. "Start praying, Kewpie Doll. If semantics can turn out an anachronism like you it can even manufacture incipient Zharkonites. Why, you can't even speak good old Terro-English." Louis Larson looked as though he were going to cry. "We gotta do something, Karl. It only takes a few minutes after one of them announcements for them heathen Marties to start playin' human grab bag. We gotta do something!" "What do you want to do, Kewpie Doll, live forever?" grinned Venard. "Besides, there is a way out for us. We don't have to go to the experimental wards. Have you forgotten this little memento from my long lost love?" * * * * *