They moved slowly, sluggishly, as did the Tellurians, in that thick, dense medium which was not, could not be, air. Ten chains were thrown, like pictures in slow motion, about ten human necks; ten entranced men were led unresistingly to anguished doom. This time the Gray Lensman's curse was not smothered--with a blistering deep-space oath he pulled his DeLameter and fired--once, twice, thrice. No soap--he knew it, but he had to try. Furious, he launched himself. His taloned fingers, ravening to tear, went past, not around, the Overlord's throat; and the scimitared tail of the reptile, fierce-driven, apparently went through the Lensman, screens, armor, and brisket, but touched none of them in passing. He hurled a thought a more disastrous bolt by far than he had sent against any mind since he had learned the art. In vain--the Overlords, themselves masters of mentality, could not be slain or even swerved by any forces at his command. Kinnison reared back then in thought. There must be some ground, some substance common to the planes or dimensions involved, else they could not be here. The deck, for instance, was as solid to his feet as it was to the enemy. He thrust out a hand at the wall beside him--it was not there. The chains, however, held his suffering men, and the Overlords held the chains. The knives, also and the clubs, and the other implements of torture being wielded with such peculiarly horrible slowness. To think was to act. He leaped forward, seized a maul, and made as though to swing it in terrific blow; only to stop, shocked. The maul did not move! Or rather, it moved, but _so_ slowly, as though he were hauling it through putty! He dropped the handle, shoving it back, and received another shock, for it kept on coming under the urge of his first mighty heave--kept coming, knocking him aside as it came! Mass! Inertia! The stuff must be a hundred times as dense as platinum! "Bus!" he flashed a thought to the staring Valerian. "Grab one of these clubs here--a little one, even _you_ can't swing a big one--and get to work!" As he thought, he leaped again; this time for a small, slender knife, almost a scalpel, but with a long, keenly thin blade. Even though it was massive as a dozen broadswords he could swing it and he did so; plunging lethally as he swung. A full-arm sweep--razor-edge shearing, crunching through plated, corded throat--grisly head floating one way, horrid body the other! Then an attack in waves of his own men! The Overlords knew what was toward. They commanded their slaves to abate the nuisance, and the Gray Lensman was buried under an avalanche of furious, although unarmed, humanity. "Chase 'em off me, will you, Worsel?" Kinnison pleaded. "You're husky enough to handle 'em all--I'm not. Hold 'em off while Bus and I polish off this crowd, huh?" And Worsel did so.