They entered the palace. Frescoed; carved everywhere, within as without. The main doorway led into a palatial hall, carpeted with furs. It was warm. Tarrano discarded his fur, and helped Elza out of hers. "You like my home, Lady Elza?" "It's--beautiful," she answered. His smile showed amusement at the wonder and awe which stamped her expression. He added very gently: "I had in mind when I built it, the hope that you would be pleased." A comfortable interior warmth. Elza noticed little blurs of red light behind wire cages here and there. The warmth came from them; and a glow of pale white light from the tubes along the wall. A woman hurried to them. Tara! Elza recognized her at once. Tara, looking very pretty in a pale blue robe, with her hair done high upon her head. The woman who loved Tarrano; he had sent her on here to be rid of her, when he went to the Great City. She came forward. Pleasure was on her face at seeing Tarrano; but her glance as she turned it momentarily toward Elza, held again that smouldering jealousy. Tarrano was evidently in a mood of high good humor. "You welcome me prettily, Tara." She had flung her arms about him. "Tara, my dear is----" "Master--you come but in time. They are working the Brende instrument. Already they have----" "They? Who?" He frowned. His words were hard and cold as the ice-blocks around him. "Woolff. And the son of Cretar. Many of them--using it now!" Tarrano drew Elza with him. Tara led the way. Through glowing white hallways, an arcade; down steps and an incline--to burst at last through a tunnel-like passage into a room. "So? What is this, Cretar?" A room littered with apparatus. A dozen men were about. Men scantily dressed in this interior heat. Short, squat men of the Cold Country; flat-nosed, heavy faces; hair long to the base of the neck. In a corner stood the Brende instrument, fully erected. A light from it seemed penetrating the bared chest of a man who was at that moment standing in its curative rays. He whom Tarrano called Cretar, took a step forward. "Master, we----" "Making yourselves immortal?" The anger had left Tarrano's voice; irony was there instead. "Master----" "Have you done that?" "Master--yes! Yes! We did! Forgive us, Master." The man before the instrument had retreated from it. Elza saw now that all the men were shrinking back in terror. All save Cretar, who had fallen tremblingly to his knees. Yet Tarrano showed no anger. He laughed. "I would not hurt you, Cretar! Get up, man! I am not angry--not even annoyed. Why, your skin is turning orange. See the mottles!" On the flesh of all the men--save the one who had been checked in the act of using the instrument--a bright orange mottling was apparent. Cretar exclaimed: "The immunity to all diseases, master. It is itself a disease--harmless--and it combats every other." He laughed a little wildly. "We cannot get sick now. We cannot die--we are immortal. Come, Master--let us make you so!"