And what of the robots? Where were they hidden? Or did they exist at all--? But he had no time to ponder, for as suddenly as the motion had begun, it ended. The rush of air slowed, then halted. Once more, the primitives' hands were lifting him, dragging him forward. But this time the passageway through which they moved led upward. The heat rose as they climbed, till Jarl was sweating and choking inside the helmet. Then the slope leveled off again, and he sensed that they had come out into another, larger room. New voices joined the dim whisperings of his escort, till their volume swelled to a tremendous, throbbing chorus. Bodies buffeted against Jarl, milling about him. Hands clawed at him--clubbing, tugging, scratching. He could feel the crowd's hot hate crushing in upon him. The musty, cloying, sweetish odor he'd smelled before grew even stronger till he was sick and dizzy, ready to vomit. His captors pressed on, not hesitating. Roughly, they led Jarl stumbling up a flight of steps. At the top, there was a brief halt. Then the faint squeal of massive hinges. A blast of heat struck Jarl a hammer blow. He reeled under its impact. From behind, someone gave him a savage shove. He lurched forward. A new burst of sound smashed at him, even through the metal helmet--a wild shout, torn from a thousand throats, fierce and welling in its hatred. The heat and smell were great sledges, pounding at him. * * * * * In spite of all of his control, Jarl felt a sudden rush of panic. Stumbling, staggering, he came upright--fists clenched, braced to meet the fury of those about him even in his helplessness, his blindness. But again hands seized him before he could strike a blow. Someone fumbled at the catches of the shrouding helmet. The metal mask came away. Sound, light, heat, stench, smashed in on Jarl. He jerked back and threw his hands up across his eyes, trying to shut out the blinding blaze of Womar's sun. But other hands jerked down his own. Blinking, half blinded, stiff with shock, he stared out incredulously upon a sight such as he had never seen before. For he stood in the prow of a great space-ship--a ship vast beyond the belief of mortal man. It was old, this ship--old with an age that staggered Jarl Corvett's mind. Eons were in the sagging plates and splitting arches. The crystals that glinted in the dull, warped metal spoke of untold ages here on Womar. The hull was smashed and shattered, too, and the blazing sun poured in through a thousand great jagged holes and rifts. One whole end of the craft was crumpled, buckled, where it had plowed deep into the rocks and sand as it crashed here.