On the other hand, he reflected, perhaps this would be the moment when boldness would accomplish more than it ever could have in the past. He had been able to get nowhere in the past months with caution, and this time, being so close, he would not turn back. III Ostby entered the Stalls through a back door. The building was built on a hill. At the front, the first floor was on the ground level. But the door Ostby entered opened into the sub-basement. The card he had taken from Groves gained him ready admittance. He flashed it once again to the clerk seated at a desk in the inner office. The clerk nodded respectfully and Ostby went through into the main section of the sub-basement; the section housing the slaves. The stench that struck his nostrils was nauseating. It stank of men too closely crowded, of unwashed bodies, and of inadequate sanitation. The place was dimly lit. Ostby waved back the "trusty" who came forward to meet him, and went alone along the stalls. At each gate he paused to look through the thick mesh wire at the hope-deadened specimens who lay apathetically on the uncleaned floor. Some of the prisoners were criminals of the state, but most of them were captive Earth people. Ostby did not pause long at any compartment until he reached one in the corner of the huge room. He studied the creature seated in a wall-crook staring back at him. The slave's beard was an inch long and his features were hardly recognizable, yet something about him held Ostby's attention. After a short minute Ostby said, "Detroit," in a low tone. The prisoner did not move but his eyes glinted in the dim light as he opened them wider. His lips formed the sound, "Tigers," as he answered the code word. "What have they done with Rohr?" Ostby asked. "I'm afraid you're too late," the slave answered. "The guard took him away yesterday--through that door, over on the far side. If he's still alive, they're probably torturing him right now." "I'll be back," Ostby said, and he walked rapidly toward the door the prisoner had indicated. Once inside Ostby flashed his card at the guard sitting on a desk, paring his fingernails. "Where's the spy?" he asked briskly. "Straight through," the guard answered. "Inspector Boorrls is working on him now." In the back room Ostby closed the door behind him and stood with his back against it. The two men standing in the center of the room turned to look at him. He let the silence grow thin without speaking. It was with an effort that he kept his eyes from the figure that hung by its wrist tendons, on steel hooks suspended from the ceiling. The taller of the two men shifted his feet uncomfortably, and wiped his right palm along the leg of his trousers. "What do you want?" he asked irritably. Ostby drew his card from his pocket and showed it to them. "I'm direct from the Imperator," he said. "Which one of you is Boorrls?" "I am," the tall man answered. "Have you made him talk yet?"