Outside of rumors, Wilding knew little of the Pit Men. But he had given them much thought, and wondered if he might find a use even for them in his escape plans. For the moment, though, he must confine himself to building up an organization. Breaking out of Alcatraz was no simple matter, and the escape he had in mind was definitely not a solo effort. He would need good technicians and a host of willing workers. For now-- There was Tichron and the challenge. Word had gone out, and the convicts were assembling to enjoy the sport. A newcomer had challenged Tichron. Wilding let his new-found friends lead him through an involved series of caverns. Accustomed as he was to varied atmospheres and gravities on many worlds, Wilding had difficulty in adjusting here. Air pressure was kept high, and artificial gravity set low, which made breathing and balance precarious. With a little additional effort, he felt that he could shove himself free of the rock floor and swim in the dense air. He must remember that in his encounter with Tichron, who would be accustomed to conditions in Alcatraz. So interested was Wilding in his surroundings that the arena was reached almost before he realized it. Dimensions of an immense hollow sphere lost themselves in murky light. Tiers of stone seats climbed the concave, curving walls, and a noisy crowd swarmed into the spectators' sections. Wilding's companions led him down an arched ramp to the low-walled pit at the bottom center. Tichron had not yet arrived, and in the interval of waiting, Concor the Martian and Grouth the spidery Mercurian worked over Wilding feverishly to massage the stiffness from his limbs. Amyth retreated into sullen silence, but Tiny leaned close to Wilding's ear and whispered. "I like your guts, young man. But why so soon? You should've waited to get back your strength, and choose a time when you have studied Tichron's style." Wilding wished profanely that the woman would stop calling him "young man." She was old enough, though life on Alcatraz might have aged her prematurely, but no older, surely, than a Martian Pzintar idol, which by atomic timetable is something less than two million years. At times, Wilding felt older, less human, more fouled by life. * * * * * Wilding braced himself for Homeric struggle and turned to smile coolly at his strange cohorts. "Waiting would be fatal," he told them grimly. "I need quick authority, and the unquestioned compliance of workers. In about two Earth-weeks the supply ship will be back. By that time I want the lighter ready for space. I want it supplied and powered for a longer run than picking up a miserable cargo of supplies." Grouth sneered. "Without fuel?" Wilding answered coldly. "Leave that problem to me."