Planter's good-looking face showed his amazement. Interworld flight was new, he had thought. But some unknown expedition might have tried it, succeeded, and then never returned to report. "'Twas for fear of black Cromwell," Mantha enlarged. "Cromwell!" echoed Planter. "The Puritan leader who fought and wiped out the English Cavaliers?" Mantha seized on one word. "Cavaliers. Yes. Our lives were forfeit. We flew hither." It explained everything--human beings in a world never meant for anything but amphibians, their fair complexions, their quaint but understandable speech, the crossbows that would be familiar weapons to Shakespere, Drake or Captain John Smith. Yes, it explained everything, except how pre-machine age Britishers could succeed on a voyage where eight space-ships before Planter's had failed. "How did you fly?" demanded Planter, amazed. Mantha shook her graying locks. "Nay, I know not. 'Twas long ago, and all records are held in the Skygor fastness." "They stole from you?" "After our fathers made landfall, there was war," Mantha said, her voice bitter. "The Skygors were many, and would have slain all, but thought to hold slaves. And as slaves our fathers dwelt and died, and their children after them." "But you aren't slaves," protested Planter. "'Tis Skygor fashion to keep all men, and such women as are hale enow for toil. Others who seem weak they cast forth to die, like us!" "Who did not die," chimed in Mara, plucking her bowstring. "We found fruits, meat, shelter, and joined. Now we slay Skygors for their metals and shot. Lately they slay weaklings, lest they join us." Planter whistled. This was a harsh proof of human tenacity. The Skygors discarding unprofitable servants and finding them a menace. "None of you are weaklings," he said. "Freedom brings health," replied Mantha sententiously. "Yet they are many more than we, well fortified, and have a strange spell to whelm those who attack." She grimaced in distaste. "We but lurk and linger, fighting when we must and fleeing when we may. As the last of us dies--" Things began to happen. A tall, robust girl, very handsome, had been hitching her woven chair close to Planter. With a pert boldness she touched his hand. "I've seen no man since I was driven forth, a child," she informed him. "I like you. I am Sala." Mara rose from her own seat, swore a rather Elizabethan oath, and slapped Sala's face resoundingly. Sala, too, sprang up. Larger than Mara, she clutched her assailant's shoulders and tripped her over a neatly extended foot. Mara spun sidewise in falling, broke Sala's hold, came to her feet with a drawn dagger. This happened silently and swiftly, with none of the screaming and fumbling that marks the rare battles between Terrestrial women. Planter stared, half aghast and half admiring. Another girl whispered behind him: "Let them fight, send them ill days! Look at me, I am not ugly."