"Hang it," he told himself, "you aren't in love with her. She's a savage, and you only met her a few hours ago! You're only worried because you feel responsibility." But he knew he lied. The boat brought them to an entrance-hole at water-level, in a large cylindrical structure. Disbro swaggered inside, with his new friends. A guard prodded Planter with his pistol-barrel to follow. As Planter obeyed, he saw behind him another boat, in which rode Max with all the baggage he had been carrying. Skygors sat with Max, plainly on good terms. Max saw Planter, too, and his face twitched and scowled as in an effort to rationalize. Inside, he found himself in a large bare room with dry, rough-cast walls. Disbro waited there, with a Skygor whose elaborate chain-mail suggested that he was an officer. "Disbro," boomed this individual cordially, "You say this is your enemy? What shall be done to him?" "I leave that to you, Phra," answered Disbro, with the grand manner of bestowing gifts. "You have your own ways of handling such problems. I am content." Another Skygor approached, and the officer discussed the case in deafening Skygor language. Then, facing Planter, he resumed English: "Your life is forfeit, but you look strong. Perhaps you can prove yourself worth keeping. Join the slaves." He struck his webbed hands together. A human man ran in. Like Mara and the other crossbow-girls, this man was blond, but the resemblance ended there. He wore loose, brief garments of elastic fabric, no weapons, and his face was mild and servile. Phra pointed to Planter. "Below with him! Put him to the spring mill!" The slave beckoned, and led Planter away, studying him curiously. Planter spoke at once: "You have many friends here, in slavery? Perhaps I can get you out of this." "Out of this!" The echo was horrified. "To starve in the jungle? Marry, sir, art mad or sick to say such a thing! Come, down these stairs." * * * * * Planter obeyed his new companion. They went down a dim, stone stairway, lighted with green bulbs. From below came sounds of mechanical action. "What's your name?" Planter asked the slave. "Glanfil. And you?" "David Planter. How many slaves are there here? Human slaves?" "Two hundred, belike. Half as many as the Skygors." That was a new thought to Planter. On Earth, races were numbered in the millions--here, by the scores. Of course, this might not be the only Skygor city. Mara had mentioned the difficulty of exploring any distance from this habitable pole. For a moment he felt the thirst for knowledge. Wasn't this world as large as his own planet? Might it not have continents, oceans, mountain ranges, whole genera of strange species, perhaps other civilizations and climates? Then he remembered. He was a slave. And a booming voice drove the memory home. "Below, men," thundered a Skygor guard. "You are not fed and lodged to be idle."