Roger's voice, calling, interrupted them. "I've got a million things to talk to you about," George was telling Loto. "Hurry it up--I'll be out in the garden." They met, a few minutes later, on the side veranda where they were to have breakfast. George's self-consciousness vanished immediately; Rogers was dressed almost exactly as he was, and he flattered himself he looked at least as well as his companion. It seemed to the new arrivals, at this first glance, a primitive world indeed into which they had fallen, the heat, the palms, the thatched bungalow, and their costumes all might have existed in some out-of-the-way tropical land of their own time-world. During the meal George was insistent with questions, but Loto smilingly refused to talk. Instead, he led his father into a brief description of their flight forward through time and south through space. When the meal was over Loto took them out to the front veranda. "I've a great deal to tell you," he said, "and I know you're as impatient to hear it as I am to tell you. I've been here on the island five months--" "We realize it," George murmured. "Didn't I watch for that light through every day and night of 'em?" Loto smiled. "I put the signal up last night because I felt that I needed you. Before we do anything, I must tell you of our affairs here. You notice I say 'our affairs.' They are a part of me now. I don't exactly know why, but the thing here grips me. I want to help these people... I feel already that I am one of them." It was no mystery to George. "Where's Azeela?" he demanded with apparent irrelevancy. "In Anglese City, the capital and largest center of population on the island. It's north of here--on the channel. I've been living there; I came down here merely to meet you. The situation here is drastic, Father. War has been impending, and now it will not be postponed much longer. This Toroh--as I told you, he is an Anglese renegade--is organizing the barbarians of the north, the Noths, as they are called. They are a people of low intelligence--brutes of men with thick black hair on their bodies. "God knows how many Noths there are--hordes of them are scattered about the northern wastes. Toroh has been organizing them. He has a base up north where he is manufacturing scientific weapons. There is class hatred here on the island, but, thank Heaven, in the face of an outside invasion, the Anglese will stick together." "You're preparing for war," George interposed. "You--" "Yes, of course. The Anglese have had no warfare for several generations; they were totally unprepared, but now they're getting things in shape." Loto's tone was optimistic, but the anxiety of his expression belied it. "I wanted you here, Father--you and George. Without Toroh, we would not fear the Noths. But Toroh is a scientist, and what weapons he will have been able to manufacture we do not know. We can only--"