Aevlyn stood with her shoulder warm against his, beside the rail. "That is the culture the Darksiders would destroy," she said softly. "They would fling the blanket of their ignorance over it, make it as the ground for their _megathons_ to race on." Flane shook his head, eyes a little sad. "That is not what the Darksiders wish, Aevlyn," he frowned. "Put yourself in their place. Let us pretend that you and I are Darksiders--say, of twenty-five years ago. We come through the mountain passes on our _megathons_ and sit looking at that great city. Remember, this is in the days when the Machine functions. We see that city lighted by the globular lights my mother, the Princess Gleya, used to tell me of. We see ships rise and sail majestically through the air. We see houses built so that sandstorms cannot wreck them. "What emotions do we feel? Awe. And jealousy, yes. We want the security, the happiness, of that city. We do not wish to destroy it. We would be only too willing to be allowed to come and dwell in it. But the Klarnva will not have us." The red-haired girl stared up at Flane, a long-nailed hand brushing back a lock of her russet hair. Her eyes were wide. "You are strange, Flane. You can see others, and feel for them, as they themselves. We Klarnva are not like that." A bit boastfully, Flane said, "That is because I am not a Klarnvan myself. I am the son of the space-travellers, whom you saw in that big ship. I wish I knew what my people were like." "You almost make me feel sorry for the Darksiders," whispered the girl, standing close to him. Flane held her soft and warm in the crook of his arm. With his lips he caressed her cheeks and mouth, tenderly. He whispered, "The union of a space-traveller and a Klarnvan might bring forth a new breed of men and women." Aevlyn flushed and hid her face in his throat, but her fingertips stroked his jaw gently, lovingly. "A new race of men," Flane went on dreamily. "Men who would live with Darksider and Klarnvan in peace, with food for all, and trade to make all men wealthy." "It's a good dream," whispered Aevlyn, "but foolish." It is foolish, thought Flane, because the races on Klarn are sliding backwards to barbarism. If only the Machine functioned! Why, if he, Flane, could make the Machine hum, he could unite the men on Klarn. They would obey his dictates, or he would refuse them the powers of the Machine! It was as simple as that. The shouting of a lookout roused him. With Aevlyn at his side, he went to stand at the rail, staring across the plains toward Moornal. A man was on a racing _megathon_, bent low across his back, swooping like a swallow in flight down into gulches, and up across the level plain. Once he flung up an arm and waved it at the ship. A rope was flung to him, and he came up it hand over hand. Panting, the messenger stood before Harth.