Thor ran across the vast chamber, his footfalls sounding loud and lonely. He stepped to the white pedestal and peered within the black urn. Green flakes and crystal chips encrusted the bowled bottom of the urn. He slipped a torn handkerchief from his pocket, and with the buckle of his belt, loosened some of the crystal chips. "I don't know whether I can ever analyze these," he said to Slag, "but I'll take them along, anyhow." Slag stood at one of the tall, arched windows, red head gleaming in the sun. He was making guttural noises in his throat, and he kept lifting and dropping his big warclub. Thor stepped to his side and looked into the streets. Men were walking stealthily along the cobblestones. * * * * * Thor blinked and rubbed his eyes. He was staring down at men clad in chain-mail armour, men in fur skins, men in suits of the same cut as he wore. There was a huge creature that Thor would have sworn was an ape, except for the two tusks depending from its lips, and its erect, intelligent bearing. There was a four-legged being, and something that had two heads. There was-- "They are men, Slag. Real men. Not androids!" He felt a warm delight in him, a welling of friendliness inspired by the weeks of wandering on the red, lonely grasslands. He lifted an arm and opened his lips to shout. A mental censor made him close his mouth. It would be better to wait, to see what manner of men these were who stalked the empty streets of a deserted city, before showing himself. Thor vaulted over the stone sill, calling to Slag to follow. Side by side they crept after the group. They went deeper into the heart of the city. By twisted alleys the stalkers went, and their furtive tread and cautious glances told Thor that they were in hostile territory. Where a building cast gloomy shadows, he ran nearer, until he could distinguish voices. To his amazement, some of the beings spoke English. He could catch fragments of words, of phrases. Mixed with his own language were terms of the jewel-speech of Klogor. And there were other tongues, too, languages that were like the cacklings of monkeys or the shrill treble of singing birds. They were mingled together, as through the ages of common living had created a new tongue that was all of none, yet something of each. Thor whispered to Slag, "They are after women." "So are we. Karola." "Yes. I wonder now--" He stood out from the shadows and called, "I am an American." A man in tweed suit that hung in tatters from bulky shoulders whirled and stared. His hair was pale blond, and his eyes were icy blue. Thor didn't need his, "Jove, you are!" to tell he was from England. "Thor Masterson," he said, putting out a hand. The Englishman chuckled, "Peter Gordon. I'm a gentleman farmer--or was, you know--from Devon. When did you get into this place?" "A few weeks ago. How long've you been here?" "Seven years, near as I can make it. How--how are things back--back there?"