His question was answered by the Golden Flame herself bursting into the room full of excitement. “Thank the Builder I can talk to you with my mouth, and do not have to wait for pencil and paper,” she exclaimed. “The Whoomangs overlooked our powers of vocal speech when they hid our writing materials as before.” It was true; their pads and styluses had miraculously disappeared again. “Where have you been?” Cabot asked, somewhat testily. “I suppose that in a few moments you will say that all _your_ excitement has been a mere practical joke on me, the same as Doggo’s was.” “Yes,” she replied seriously. “I shall—undoubtedly. And therefore listen while there is yet time—while I am still Quivven.” “What do you mean?” Myles exclaimed, staring at her. “This,” she said. “In a few moments I shall be Whoomang.” He started to interrupt, but she stopped him with a peremptory gesture, and continued; “Know, then, the secret of all this talk of souls. The grubs which they breed from their moths are strong personalities, potential devils, needing only a highly-developed body in order to become devils incarnate. Namllup, whoever he was, discovered this, ages ago. “By a simple operation, the Whoomangs can insert one of these larvae at the base of a creature’s brain, where in a few hours the personality of the larva overcomes the proper personality of the creature, and henceforth rules the creature until the creature dies. The larva then flutters free, a moth, to propagate other devil-souls for this nefarious usage. “Yesterday these fiends operated upon Doggo. For a time, his own soul and this brain-maggot struggled for supremacy. While his own personality remained ascendant, and yet had imbibed sufficient knowledge to understand the situation, he tried to warn us of our danger. Would that he had been in time! But when the pad of paper had arrived, dear old Doggo was dead. His body had become a Whoomang, dominated by one of their moth-grubs, ‘souls’ as they call them. “This afternoon they operated on me!” Myles shuddered, but Quivven went relentlessly on: “Two personalities are now contending within me for mastery. There can be but one outcome. Quivven must die, and her brain and body must become the vehicle for the thoughts and schemes of an alien mind. My will is strong. At present it is in control. But any moment now, it may snap. So I adjure you, by the Great Builder and your loved ones, refuse stonily and absolutely to listen to any denial which my mouth may give you. “Now, while there is yet time, I must tell you their plans. Boomalayla sighs for more worlds to conquer. He was captivated by your tales of your country. To-morrow he will operate on you. Then, when the bodies of you and Doggo and I are all Whoomangs, and yet retain a certain amount of our own knowledge and skill, he plans to send us on to Cupia with a plane-load of moths, to operate on your countrymen, and build up a second empire of Whoomangs there.”