"How does anyone get anywhere around this place? In one of those patent Fords of theirs." They gazed at each other for a moment, too glad of a familiar face to make the ordinary banal remarks. The dancer spoke first: "Well, did they put the screws on you, big boy? They tried to pump me about that accident but all I'd think about was how good Broadway would look with all the lights, and they didn't make much out of me." "I'll say they put the screws on me. They've had me in there every day since, trying to find out something about guns." "Guns? What t'hell! Ain't they got that light-ray? They could give cards and spades to all the guns in the world with that. Wait a minute, though...." She thought for a moment. "Do you know, I think they're scared yellow about something and I'll bet a hundred dollars against a case of bathtub gin I know what it is." "Yeh? Spring it. They keep pumping me and I'd like to know what it's all about." The dancer glanced around. On the far side of her cage was an inattentive ape-man tossing his oil-ball about, across the corridor another. "Come over here," she said. "They haven't put me next to you for the fun of it, and they may have a dictaphone stuck around somewhere." Obediently Sherman approached the bars of the cage. "They put me to work making those fighting-machines," she whispered, "you know, those big shiny things like we hid behind that day we tried to make the break. They had the helmets on me most of the time because I didn't know how to use their tools and machines and I got a lot of what the guy that was running me was thinking about. He was damn nervous about something, and I think it was because there are some people outside going to take a whack at these babies." "People like--us?" asked Sherman. "I don't know. I didn't get it very good, but I think they're ordinary flesh-and-blood people. They came and got a lot of the dopeys from the room where I lived the other day and put them in one of the new fighting-machines and took it out. It never came back." "Mmm," said Sherman, "do you s'pose that was because it got cracked up or because they took it somewhere else?" "Dunno. But something's stirring." If the Lassans had set a dictaphone or some similar device to spy on them there was no sign of it in the conversation which Sherman's interrogator held with him during the next period. But when he saw the dancer again, she beckoned him silently to her side, and producing from one of her drawers a book, began to trace letters on it with a fingernail dipped in grease. "_Be careful what you say_," she wrote. "_They know what we're talking about. They pumped me._" He nodded. "Well, kid," he said aloud. "What do you think? Will you ever make dancers of these Lassans?"