"Sit down," the interpreter directed. Harding was not in evidence. "Where is my companion?" he asked. The interpreter conferred briefly with the leader, then told Sheckly, "He could not come. Sit down--eat." Sheckly sat down, but he didn't feel like eating. He wondered _why_ Harding could not come. At a sudden thought, he said, "I have rations on my ship--" "Eat," the interpreter said, gripping his sword. Sheckly nodded weakly and reached out for the bowl of fruit, taking one that resembled that which Harding had eaten the previous night. It wasn't bad. The leader stuffed a fistful of squirming insects in his mouth and offered the bowl to Sheckly, who shook his head as politely as he could and indicated the fruit in his hand. Fortunately, the serpentman did not insist on his taking anything other than fruit, so the meal passed without physical discomfort. When they were through, the leader hissed several syllables to the interpreter, who said, "The leader wishes to see your games. You will set them up now." Sheckly ran his tongue over dry lips. "They're in the ship," he said, and eagerness crept into his voice. "I'll have to get them." Once inside the ship, he'd never come back. He'd slam the airlock door and bolt it and then blast off as fast as he could get the motors going, Harding or no Harding. He got up. "We will help you," the interpreter said. "No. I can do it myself." "We will help you," the interpreter insisted firmly. His eyes bored into the Earthling, as though daring him to refuse again. Sheckly's mouth felt dry once more. "Where's Harding?" he demanded. "Where's the other Earth man? What have you done with him?" The interpreter looked at the leader, who nodded. The interpreter said gravely, "It is too bad. It is the season for the shedding of skins. At the shedding feast last night--" "The shedding of skins!" Sheckly said, remembering the pile he'd seen at one corner of the village; "those translucent things were your cast-off skins." He recalled that some reptiles back on Earth had regular seasons of shedding. That intelligent creatures should do it made him feel slightly sick. "Your friend joined us last night," the serpentman went on. "But he could not shed properly, so--" Sheckly felt his blood turn to ice. "--so we helped him." "You _what_?" "We helped him out of his skin," the serpentman went on calmly. "We try to help those who are friends with us. Your friend had trouble getting his skin off, but with our help--" "No!" the Earthling cried, trying to reject the thought. The full realization of what had happened struck him at once. Despite himself, he could picture Harding struggling, trying to convince these creatures that Earthlings don't shed their skins. His struggles must have convinced them only that he was having trouble shedding, so they "helped him." They had come to skin the natives, but the reverse was happening--only literally.