In a second his mind was made up—quickly he placed a cushion on his couch and covered it over with rugs: in the semi-darkness it almost showed the curves of a living body. The door latch rattled softly, and Alan slipped behind the folds of a heavy silken curtain. Softly the door opened, until it was just wide enough to permit the passage of a man’s body. Alan peered through the curtain opening and saw that it was Kulmervan who had entered. The Keemarnian stepped over to the couch and touched the coverlet. “He’s asleep,” he whispered in his own language, and Waiko entered softly. “Have you the spray?” “Yes, my Kulmervan—but is it necessary? I’m afraid—” “Fool,” hissed Kulmervan. “The spray.” Waiko handed him a long piece of tubing, the end of which was fastened to a small bulb. Kulmervan laid the nozzle end on the bed—there was a slight hissing sound, and the room became sweet with a subtle scent. “Quick,” whispered Kulmervan to his accomplice, “hasten, lest the fumes overpower us,” and the two hurriedly left the chamber closing the door tightly behind them. The air was already heavy, and Alan felt a drowsiness coming over him. With a mighty effort he opened the window and leant out. It was a battle royal between the fumes and the fresh air. Alan felt his head reel and his senses swim, but the pure night air conquered, and the little cabin was soon free of its poison. Silently Alan sat until the dawn broke, thinking over the strange problem that had presented itself to him. He had made an enemy, unwittingly it is true, but an enemy who would stop at nothing in order to further his ends. He wondered what effect the powerful fumes would have had upon him. In a land where there was no death, could life be taken? What would have happened to him had he inhaled them? He was determined to ask Waz-Y-Kjesta at the first opportunity. Suddenly from without a cheery voice hailed him. It was the Waz. “How did you sleep, my friend?” and he entered the cabin. “Very well indeed,” said Alan, glibly lying. “I slept badly, my Alan. I had evil dreams of you. I saw you lying—serquor—oh!” “What is serquor?” “It is the worst thing that could befall us on Keemar, my friend. Seldom it happens—but once in a lifetime. The body stiffens, sleep comes from which one never awakens. Life is, to all intents and purposes, extinct. Yet the body does not melt into nothingness, as at the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. It remains on earth, cut off from the living, cut off from those already in glory,—useless, desolate, alone.” “What causes it?” asked Alan eagerly. “Sometimes a blow or a fall—or it can be produced artificially by inhaling morka, a gas used in the weaving of our silks. The workers wear shields over their mouths when using it, and are very careful. Never have I known such an accident to occur, but it could. It was thus I dreamt of you, my Alan.”