It was gone immediately. Jacklyn ignored the remark. He said, “I was one of the first spacemen. There’ve been plenty of improvements since my time, what with liquid fuels instead of powder, and those new magnetic induced-gravity screens they’re working on. But it’s like shipping, I guess—steam or sail, it’ll never really change. There’ll be the sea under you, or space around you. We—” “_Sh-h!_” Brady held up a warning finger. “Hold it!” They paused, but no sound came. The captain relaxed. “Thought I heard an explosion. Guess not. Well—by the way, are you sure you know how to use the carbon-pistols?” “It’s not hard,” Tony said. He took out his weapon, resembling an oversized revolver with a cup-shaped hollow where the hammer should have been. From his pocket he withdrew a bit of coal, slipped it into the cup, where prongs held it firmly in place, and hefted the gun. “Not so easy to sight as a Colt, but the force-charge scatters, doesn’t it?” Jacklyn said, “Right. Watch the recoil, though. Ease the trigger-button down. And don’t run out of coal.” “Funny,” Tony remarked. “Coal doesn’t seem much good in a pistol.” Captain Brady laughed a little. “The thing’s based on atomic force—liberation of quanta, though I don’t understand the scientific principles of it myself. Works only on carbon. Coal’s carbon—and cheap. So, if the Copts get out of hand, we fight ’em with the coal they dig for us. Rather unfair, but it’s all in the Legion’s work.” “Practically everything is,” Tony said dryly. “How much farther, captain?” “We’ve been going down steadily—wait! Here’s someone. Don’t touch your guns unless I give the word.” Tony stared ahead. For a second he saw nothing; then abruptly the tunnel was filled with a dozen bizarre figures. Clad in skin-fitting garments of unfamiliar texture, white-skinned, with blue veins showing plainly through the flesh, the men’s faces were aquiline and strong, with beaked noses and abnormally large eyes, in which the pupils nearly eclipsed the irises. The Copts’ hair—they had none on their faces—was like bleached straw, tightly curled. They seemed unarmed, yet Brady’s whole body subtly tensed as he stood waiting. The foremost of the Copts, taller than the rest, and wearing a tapering headdress, came forward, hand lifted. He spoke in English. “Captain Brady, why are you here?” Brady said, “If any harm comes to a legionnaire, it will not be well with the Copts, priest.” * * * * * The man nodded. “I understand. That was a mistake. Some of our younger men—they have already been suitably punished for meddling in affairs beyond them. Your legionnaire is back in the fort, Captain Brady. You will find him there if you return.” Tony detected a half-veiled glance the priest sent at his fellows. Brady saw it also, and tugged at his moustache. “You are speaking true words?” “I speak true words.” “Suppose we do not believe. Suppose we—go on.”