The corridor in which he found himself was of bare plastic, covered with a wavy bas-relief oddly reminiscent of water's ripples, and tinted azure and gray. Here and there cold lamps, using a principle unfamiliar to the man, were set in the walls. Radioactivity, he theorized, or the Venusian equivalent. He saw a ramp, and descended it to enter a huge low-ceilinged room, with doors at intervals set in the curving walls. One of the doors was open, and Lysla's low voice called him. He entered a cubicle, not large, with four crude bunks arranged here and there. The girl was fitting the metal plaque into a frame over one. She smiled at him. "Your dog-license, Jerry. You're 57-R-Mel. It means something to the Swamja, I suppose." "Yeah?" Vanning saw a similar plaque over each of the cots. "What's this place?" "One of the dormitories. Four to an apartment is the rule. You'll be lodged with three men who arrived a little while before you did--two Earthmen and a Venusian." "I see. What am I supposed to do?" "Just wait here till you're summoned. And Jerry--" She came toward him, placing her palms flat on his broad chest, her blue eyes looking up into his appealingly. "Jerry, please don't do anything foolish. I know it's hard at first. But--_they_--punish rebellious slaves rather awfully." Vanning smiled down at her. "Okay, Lysla. I'll look around before I do anything. But, believe me, I intend to start a private little revolution around here." She shook her head hopelessly, auburn curls flying. "It isn't any use. I've seen that already. You'll see it, too. I must go now. And be careful, Jerry." He squeezed her arm reassuringly. "Sure. I'll see you again?" "Yes. But now--" She was gone. Vanning whistled softly, and turned to examine the room. Sight of his face in a mirror startled him. Under the stubbly growth of beard, his familiar features had altered, grown haggard and strained. A razor lay handy--or, rather, a sharp dagger with a razor-sharp edge. There was a bar of gray substance that gave a great deal of lather when Vanning moistened it in the metal bowl that served as a wash-basin. He shaved, and felt much better. His weakness had almost entirely gone. The medical science of the Swamja, at least, was above reproach. Nevertheless, he tired easily.... That would pass. Who were his bunk-mates in this cubicle? Idly Vanning scrutinized their effects, strewn helter-skelter on the shelves. Nothing there to tell him. There was a metal comb, however, and Vanning reached for it. It slipped from his fingers and clattered to the plastic floor. Vanning grunted and got down on his knees to recover the object, which had skidded into a dark recess under the lowest shelf. His fumbling fingers encountered something cold and hard, and he drew it out wonderingly. It was a flat case, without ornament, and clicked open in his hands.