And suddenly Ramey realized that, incredible as it sounded to an Earthman, this was the absolute truth! Thalakka was a Martian, born of a race whose planet had long been well-nigh waterless, a race whose sluggish canals barely supplied sustenance to the few, hardy plants that sucked their moisture. And the Videlians did not know how to swim! Even in a situation like this, where an Earth child could have paddled his way to safety in the twinkling of an eye, Captain Thalakka's life was in deadly peril! To think, with Ramey Winters, was to act. It barely mattered that Thalakka was of another race, aye, even of another world. In a flash, the young Earthman was on his feet; then, with a splash, he was diving after the submerged body of the Martian. His hands, groping for a hold, found Thalakka at the same moment the Videlian's frantic clutch found him. Desperate arms wrapped around his neck, engulfing, swaddling him, choking the breath from his lungs. The Martian's weight was like a leaden anchor, dragging him to the bottom. But there came to Ramey memory of lifesaving drill learned in a college. Instinctively his hands did the proper thing. Right hand _so_--on Thalakka's left elbow. Left hand _thus_, on the Martian's right wrist. A twist ... a shrug ... and he was behind the Martian, treading water, holding the other man's right arm in a straining hammerlock, gulping in great life-giving draughts of air. * * * * * After that, his task was simple. With the Martian's face cupped in his left hand, he kicked out strongly for the boat. Sheng-ti was at the boat-side to grip his burden, lift him over the thwarts. And seconds later, rescued and rescuer were being put safely ashore, ears dinning under the cascading roars of an excited group of on-lookers. Then it was that Captain Thalakka turned to Winters, held forth his hand in a gesture that meant one thing on any world. "I thank you, man of Earth," he said gratefully. "I owe my life to you. And Thalakka, Captain of the Torthian Guard, will not forget." "That's all right, chum," grinned Ramey. "A little swim goes good on a hot day like this. But I'd take a few lessons in the Australian crawl, if I were you." He reached up to brush his dripping hair from his forehead. And as he did so, on his fingers he saw that which brought a sudden spasm of fear to his heart. For the fingers which had brushed his forehead were--yellow-brown! The dye! The dye with which he had been painted had streaked and run! Even as the knowledge struck him, came corroboration in a cry from the overhanging balcony above his head. A call in tones that Ramey Winters recognized all too well, the vibrant, bell-like voice of the Lady Rakshasi. "Warriors! Seize that man! Seize him and guard him well! He is a spy from the camp of our enemy, Sugriva!" CHAPTER XIII Vibhishana