The section occupied by Lindoo and his emperor was large and roomy, but the other section was small, a sort of cove, off of the main room. A man-at-arms moved an ornate chair that stopped the descent of the glass, and when the sheet of glass reached the floor, men-at-arms went around the edges and sealed it with a gluey mixture that came from portable pressure-guns. This was done on both sides, and as those on the small side left the room through the tiny square door, one of them snapped a button on the wall. The invisible and soundless atomizer-vents in the ceiling filled the air with a gentle spray of the best bactericide known to the Loard-vogh. The tiny door opened again, and Billy Thompson entered, leaving his glass case attached to the door frame on the other side. His nose wrinkled at the smell of the bactericide, but he grinned at the precautions. He, the vanquished, still held sway over their fears. Thompson advanced and saluted. Then he waited. "Arrogant, to boot," snapped Vorgan to Lindoo. His voice came to Billy out of the speaker in the ceiling, and Thompson stifled the natural impulse to face the position from which came the voice. He faced Vorgan. "Not arrogant," he said quietly. "I merely request the respect shown to a vanquished, but adequate adversary." "Our adversaries are always vanquished," snapped Lindoo. "And they become our slaves." "A slave you may consider me," nodded Billy. "That I can not change. But the self-respect I have for having been vanquished only after a bitter fight requires me to consider myself more than a voiceless slave. You can not change that." Vorgan looked at Lindoo. "Was that your reason for fighting?" asked the Lord of All. "The basic reason for all strife," said Billy, "is to impose your will upon your adversaries." Vorgan and Lindoo nodded impatiently. "We fought to impose our will upon you. Our will is that we of the Solar Sector gain your respect, slaves though we must be." "And you were willing to lose eight and one half million men to gain that respect?" "Your estimate is wrong. We lost but seven thousand souls--five thousand of which were civilians caught in the backwash and splash-over from our fighting." "Seven thous--" exploded Vorgan, visibly shaken. "Seventeen million--" cried Lindoo hoarsely. "Your losses?" asked Billy of Lindoo. The Head of Strategy nodded. "It is deplorable. I am sorry--" "How dare you!" thundered Vorgan. "How dare you, a slave, to feel sorry for your masters?" Thompson smiled wanly. "Would I get better treatment if I claimed to be glad of your losses?" "I'll have your throat--" "Careful, Lord of All, you are not being fair. I am damned for being sorry and equally damned if I feel glad. Do you prefer my sympathy or my hatred?" "You brazen, arrogant--"