But now, to one side of the stage-like platform on which he and his escort party stood, there was a sudden stir of motion. A new door opened in what had been a bulkhead barring the way to another part of the ancient, fallen ship. A cry went up from the seething multitude. The mass of primitives surged forward, close against the platform. Slowly, creaking and groaning, a great stone slab was wheeled forth. Its sides were deep-graven with carved figures ... strange, hideous figures that writhed in ecstasy and anguish. Stains smudged its upper surface. Heavy metal clamps, long age-corroded, were set into each corner. With a sickening jolt, it came to Jarl that it was an altar. Straining and grunting, a crew of primitives tugged it into position in the platform's center. Jarl's captors gripped his arms. The panting group by the altar straightened and hurried back through the door in the bulkhead. Rattling sounds came forth. A moment later, the primitives reappeared, rolling out a monstrous, shining metal tub on wheels, big as one of the kettledrums of the spider men of Rhea. Its sides were graven with the same contorted figures as the altar. The din of the crowd swelled louder. Masked primitives leaped and screamed in impassioned frenzy. Tight-jawed, Jarl waited. The wheeled tub was set in place beside the altar. It moved easily and smoothly. Then, again, the altar-crew retreated through the bulkhead. This time, when they returned, they bore a living, struggling creature. * * * * * Man-sized, the thing was like no animal Jarl had ever seen before, with brown, bead-like skin and tiny brain-case. Off-hand, he judged it to belong to some desert species native to this grit-drifted hell-hole, Womar. The primitives carried it to the altar; clamped its spradled body face up atop the stone with the ancient shackles. The din of the crowd was deafening. Somewhere on high, a great gong sounded. The shouts and screaming died away. In the same instant, a new door opened in the bulkhead. Another primitive stepped forth; paused, posing. This creature's garb was different from the others! His metal mask was ebon. So were his plumes, his girdle. A great scarlet jewel was set in the forehead of the dead-black helmet. His hands were gloved in sleek jet gauntlets. Now, while Jarl watched, the posing primitive's arms came up, till the gloved hands were high above his head, displayed, as if they were a symbol. The throng below stood frozen, rigid. The black-masked primitive strode forward, to a spot between the altar and the shining metal tub. Swiftly, he lifted the lid that capped the drum-like vat. Two of the altar-crew rushed forward and held it open for him. Another held out a strange implement that, to Jarl, looked like some crude sort of grease-gun.