Then Valur was back, gently carrying a plasti-book, opening it as he came. He spread the book on the table, opening it to a group picture, indicating one man. He took a small box from a pocket in his robe, made prints of Trent's fingerprints. "It is he," he said at last, pushing the book and prints aside. There was silence then, the Elder and Valur studying the man before them with awe-filled eyes. Trent shifted uncomfortably. "Now, suppose you tell me your story?" he asked. The Elder nodded. "There are about three thousand of us Barbs beneath the city. Our ancestors fought the Masters, hiding like beasts beneath the ground, never finding the weapons that would rid the Earth of the Gharrians. We do nothing now but live and hope, sometimes making raids on the breeding stations, trying to free those who would escape." Weariness came to his voice. "The breeders lack spirit now, after centuries of slavery; usually they will not run, even when their devil-wires are broken." "Devil-wires?" Trent asked. Valur explained. "They slay at a touch, and when broken, they snap and spit yellow flames." "Electricity?" Valur shrugged. "I have read the word, but it means nothing to me." Kimball Trent gestured at the lights. "Those lights and the mono-wheel car; they are both somewhat electrical in nature." The Elder shook his head. "We know how none of the things work that we use. We find them, and sometimes they do certain things; when they cease to function, we forget them. None of us have the knowledge to maintain or repair them." Kimball Trent nodded. He saw now many things that he had not understood before. He had seen primitive spears and a car that ran by _atomilect_ power, had seen one man who could read and others to whom reading was a mystery not to be fathomed by ordinary men. He had seen the intelligence that gleamed in his captors' eyes, and yet they had thought him a superman because he had slain one of the Gharrians' hunting broks with a flame gun. "I can repair them," he said at last. "But first, I must know how you live, and the machines upon which you live." The Elder came lithely to his feet. "We shall show you all," he said, faint hope flickering in his voice. "You will find conditions much changed from those you knew." He smiled. "Later, you shall tell us of your world." He led the way into the tunnel, sent a guard for Trent's weapons. Kimball Trent fitted them onto his shoulder and hip again, then strode down the tunnel at the side of his two guides. "You spoke of breeding stations," he said as they walked. "What did you mean?" Muscles knotted in Valur's jaws. "They _are_ breeding stations," he said. "For almost five centuries the Gharrians have forced Earth to supply slaves for them. Great depots are made into slave camps, and the children born are carried in the crimson ships into space. We never see them again." * * * * *