He owned a desire to see more of these _ardth_. Perhaps he could reason with their commander, make some sort of compromise. He would do anything to save the Trylla. Fay and the others were safe. Let them go to the Barrow. He would know where to find them when he escaped from the _ardth_. And he would escape. There was no prison made that could hold Tyr. He said slowly, "I yield. I will go with you." Dully, despite all his hopes and plans, he knew himself a complete and total failure as a god. * * * * * Her hair was black as the tip of a raven's wing, parted in the middle, and drawn back over tiny ears. She had black eyes and a wide, crimson mouth that kept smiling at him, gently. She stood in the midst of the cloaked _ardth_-men who stared at him as they listened to the voices of the airmen who had captured him. Tyr grew uncomfortable under her steady gaze. He shifted his feet, feeling silly, looming so big above the smaller pilots. He felt that they all were laughing at him. What a god he was! No wonder they laughed at him secretly. A god who was the protector of his race, allowing capture by three pilots he could have killed with three blows of his big hands. The eyes and the mockery of the men he did not mind, but the steady eyes of the woman-- Forget her, and look about you, Tyr. This is a room of the Old Ones, with its silver and black-glass windows arching a hundred feet up along the wall, and the hooded eagle design carven into the stone and wood. A highbacked chair stood empty on a rostrum as the man who usually filled it stood with the others, watching him. This was wealth, from the priceless red damask drapes at the windows to the hand-laid tiles beneath his feet. It was no use. Her dark eyes were too steady. "A lie," said one of the Old Ones calmly. "No man could do what he did." "He is no man, sire. He is the one the Trylla worship. He is--Tyr!" They started at that. The pilot had told his story cleverly. He grinned with self-appreciation as the murmurs and the cries rewarded him. Tyr knew the closer scrutiny of the eyes beneath drawn brows. They ate him up, those eyes. Especially the eyes of the woman. A lean man with a bald head and iron-grey mustache stepped forward and walked around Tyr, his glittering eyes probing. Shaking his head dubiously, he said, "Katha, you're our biochemical expert. Can it be?" The woman with the black hair came toward him, swaying gracefully. "I must make tests, Space Commander," she said, and Tyr liked the hoarse vibrancy of her voice. It sent tingles down his spine. But maybe that was the black eyes of her that smiled up at him as she asked, "Is it true, what he says?" "Yes, it's true. I outran their planes. I could have killed them, but I did not choose to." "Then why didn't you?" she smiled. "Because I--show me to your commander. I want to treat with him. That is why I suffered capture. I will offer peace for peace. All I ask--"