Venard said it again. It was working. He really was beginning to believe it himself. "Sure it's very, very possible that the old semantically-trained Martians like Jhongan got into that throne room someway and conked out the Zharkon's double-brain, and that's a lot of conking. And do you know what that means? It means the whole Zharkonistic set-up will be thrown off center, maybe disintegrate entirely. Remember, the Marties have regressed in a social sense. They're primitives now. They worship the old gods--Styx, Amphoor, Aalghor. Their leader, the Zharkon, is the mouthpiece of the gods. If he goes, the gods and the whole militaristic mythology could very possibly crumble overnight." It sounded magnificent. And it was possible, if one was sufficiently desperate. "But it ain't true, an' you know it, Karl," moaned Larson. "Oh, the devil with you," yelled Venard. "You're a negativistic melancholic, among other unmentionable things. As an example of the semantically-trained mind, you speak oddly for the world of null-A." "The awful disgrace of it, Karl. The whole Solar System taken over by barbaric sponges with legs. Who'd ever thought they had it in 'em?" Venard gripped the cell bars in his big hands and pressed his forehead tightly against the cool hardness. "Yeah," he muttered. "Damnation, Kewpie Doll! I wish we could've escaped to the Underground. If the Martian Underground have really managed to injure Zharkon, that means maybe the Martian Terro-Colonial Armies of Occupation might disorganize, fall apart. And if we could only contact the Underground here--" Venard shook his head; sweat speckled the metal wall. Fools. There was nothing to the rumor, because such a thing was impossible. There was no escape. Only the memory-crystal, a quick, self-administered destruction. Blackout. Larson's voice was a faint, far-away whisper. "They're comin' for us. Look at them furriners--" * * * * * Metal doors had been clanging open. Venard was suddenly aware of the shuffling of feet and the lifeless stirring and phlegmatic voices of those whose minds had surrendered. Venard leaned against the wall of the cubicle. He wouldn't stand at attention now. Not again. He had once to avoid being beaten. But they couldn't do anything more to a man than kill him. And he would take care of that now, his own way. A much quicker and less complicated way than was to be found in the experimental wards. The women were the first of the pathetic line of chained humans who staggered into sight around a turn in the dark corridor. Their cells were on the west half of Concentration Camp No. 7 and they were always first in the hostage lines. Bony human wrecks in drab and ragged sack-like garments. Grey faces behind dry strings of unhealthy, scaly hair.