The door clanged shut on the Martian's ghoulish laugh. Sick with pain, Jarl dragged himself up and crawled to the bunk. Belly-down, he sagged onto the springless frame. How long he lay there he never knew. It was all he could do to breathe, to be. The room about him was a reeling, distorted world of mists and feverish dreams. Then, at last, that, too, passed. Wearily, he pulled himself upright and shook out his wadded tunic. Metal clanged on the floor. Jarl stiffened in spite of his wounds. Swiftly, he bent and felt beneath the bunk. His hand touched metal. It was a knife ... a keen, long-bladed telonium fighting _skrii_. For a long, long moment he sat in silence, gripping its heavy haft. Then, in the darkness, he slowly smiled. A _Malya_ was still a _Malya_, whether he wore the Federation's uniform or not. Tomorrow they'd ship him to the Venus headquarters, the _slan_-chambers, death. But this was tonight, the darkest hour, and he had a knife, and the high commissioner's carrier still stood in the court outside.... CHAPTER III The fleet-bell was tolling the nineteenth hour before the _ktar_ came down. Lying in the darkness, waiting for him, Jarl battled in stubborn silence against the pain. He found himself giving heed to a thousand little things--the roughness of the pollard-weave against his lacerated cheek ... a prowling _peffok's_ distant cry. Faint, pervasive scents of doloid dust, of must and _jeol_, pressed in upon him. He savored the raw taste of blood in his mouth ... the saltiness of sweat when he ran his tongue along his lips. Once, dimly, he caught the harsh rasp of Ungo's voice, drifting to him from some other room. Ungo of Jupiter, Big Ungo the loyal. He'd come here, protesting, on a fool's mad mission. And now.... A flood of black doubt welled up in Jarl Corvett--doubt of himself, his world, his cause. Would his dreams end here, in this dreary cell? Would morning find him lancing out through space on his way to Venus and the _slan_-chambers? And ... would Wassreck die? Writhing, fists clenched, he tried to drive the vision of the burning eyes, the pain-racked body, from his brain. But the image, the dark thoughts, would not go away. Because Wassreck was on Venus already. Wassreck had no hope, save in him, Jarl Corvett.... An incoherent, protestful sound rose in his throat. Spasmodically, he gripped the bunk's chill metal frame; twisted as if to rend it, tear it apart. The effort made his tortured muscles shriek with pain. His ears rang. The room rocked wildly. He gasped and sagged forward, plunging down through green-and-purple depths of icy fire into a bottomless, slowly-eddying pool. Then the pool resolved. Of a sudden he was looking into Sais' dark eyes. She was smiling at him, a tender smile, and her fingers were cool against his cheek, her soft lips welcoming his.