"At last you have recovered," he said to me. His voice was the heavy, guttural timber of a mid-European. He was a villainous-looking fellow, his slack-jowled face bluish with a week's growth of beard. "Yes," I said. "Fortunately for me. Are you Curtmann?" "He's Frantz," Jim put in. "He's been feeding me." "Tell your master I want to see him," I said. "And take me to the girl, Venta." The fellow leered. "You talk like you own the ship," he commented. The doorslide closed. His footsteps retreated, but presently they came back. He opened the door. "The Great-Master says, bring you," he said with an ironic grin. "Come on. You can both come." * * * * * Silently we followed him down a narrow metal corridor. "This way--" I saw our captor now as a bulky six-foot fellow clad incongruously in a crudely plaited robe of dried vegetable fibre, draped upon him like a Roman toga. He stood aside at an oval doorway; and Jim and I went into a small triangular room. Starlight filtered into it from a side bull's-eye. Clad still in her brief garment, Venta sat on a square pad on the floor. As we entered she flung me a look, and then stared straight ahead. "So? This is the fellow who thought he would steal my little Venta? Come in, Frane. Stand over there; I want to look you over." Karl Curtmann. He was seated in a small, straight-backed armchair. He was a smallish, slim fellow, not over forty perhaps. A vivid blue toga encased him; sandals were on his feet. At our entrance he raised one of his bare ornamented arms with a gesture. The costume was queerly incongruous to a modern Earthman; but upon Curtmann there was an immense dignity, a sense of the consciousness of his own greatness. More than mere conceit, it seemed to radiate from him. On his heavy, square-jawed face there was a look of amused contempt as he regarded me. "My little Venta has asked me not to kill you," he added. His voice was soft and suave. English was his native language, taught him exclusively by Government decree. But the inherited timbre was guttural. "That is fortunate, is it not?" "Yes," I agreed. "Very. I thank her." His eyes twinkled; his immaculate hands with jeweled fingers, brushed his crisp blond hair. "You can also thank me. I am permitting you to join our life. You know now, of course, that I am Master of Venus? It is their good fortune. Always I shall protect them from any harm, and teach them the life that is good for them." He was utterly sincere. His eyes were gleaming with his fervour. Man of Destiny. He believed it with the faith of a child. And now his gaze went to Venta. "Her people--" He was still talking to me, though he stared at her. "Some of them still are misguided. Old Prytan, her grandfather, is a very wicked old man, Frane. He has fled to the Forest City. He defies my rule. I shall have to punish that Forest City."