"Should be," commented Sandra wryly. "After all, my trouble was not being able to make the drive work. Couldn't get any push. Used up my entire stock of cupralum. So, do we?" "I hate to say 'yes,'" said Theodi. "Look," said Sandra, realizing something for the first time. "We have lots of gravitic machinery. Give me your useless power plants and I'll see that you get gravitic machinery to replace them." "Um-m-m." "Look, Theodi, you're used to thinking in Telfan terms--which means no gravitics. Think in Terran terms. You are no longer alone in the universe. You are in contact with a race that has gravitic power." "Well--" Sandra smiled. "Take it or leave it--and die," she told him. "Think of it. Andryorelitis comes like a thief in the night, giving no warning. Like the black wings of a gigantic, clutching bat, silent and ominous and unseen it comes and spreads its horde of hell on the city. Men go on in their way, meeting other men and inoculating them, passing the germ of death to whomever the black visitor may have missed on his visit. Men take it to their families and spread it from hand to hand, from lip to lip, from mother to babe to grandparent and beyond. The unborn is as cursed as the almost-dead, for it is within their bodies. The days pass in which every soul is given the opportunity of catching and spreading the dread disease. "Then in this peaceful, unawareness of the terror, nine days pass and one sees a red spot on his arm. He shies away from his friends not knowing that they, too, have red blotches. The city is made of slinking men, ashamed women, and scared children. The newspaper headlines scream of the plague, but none will buy, for they fear inoculation on the part of the newsboy. They fight and fear one another, and the plague has its way, spreading across the city like the falling of night and missing none. "The Grim Reaper swings his sharp scythe, and the populace falls like shorn wheat. "And the stricken city becomes a place of horror. The smell of rotting bodies taints the air and makes life impossible for those unlucky few who have not been given the peace of death. None are interested in the cries of the dying, and no one sees the sunken cheeks, the withered bodies, the redding flesh. Do you like that picture, Theodi?" "You speak harshly, Sandrake." "You paint a prettier one," said Sandra, scorning him. "Go home and dream. Let your imagination roam--or haven't you Telfans got imagination?" "We have, but--" "You utter fool! To stand there like a stick of wood between Telfu and some lumps of worthless metal! Like the drowning man that clutched his gold--which pulled him under. Fool's gold. Theodi." "There is much in what she says, Theodi," added Orfall. "It is hard to think, sometimes," said Theodi slowly.