Malovar left behind him an exceedingly perturbed human. Larkin knew the ruler well enough to know that Malovar meant what he said. His hand would not be stayed at the time of the testing. And that time might be any time when the temple bells sounded a summons to the vast, almost-ruined amphitheater which was used for the tests. Again a chill passed through Larkin. He had been through the testing before, many times, but there had never been any doubt in his mind that he would win through it. Now there was doubt. He had seen what happened to those who failed. In him the chill grew to a shudder. These Martians had the damnedest customs. Faced with this choice, there could be only one answer. Docker and his cut-throat crew could really go to hell. Better defy Docker than Malovar. There was no way in which the humans could enforce their demands on him. Or was there? So far as he knew there were no weapons in this city strong enough to resist the power of the single ship that lay outside. The Martians obeyed Malovar because of custom, and not because the ruler had any way to enforce his orders. Larkin could see no way by which Malovar could force Docker to go through the testing. A single trader could be forced. But a ship full of men armed with _Kell_ guns--No! Larkin spent most of the night going over what he would say to Docker's men when they arrived in the morning. They came early. Three were the same. Standing in the door of his store, Larkin stared at the fourth man with growing horror in his heart. The sight of that fourth man hit him harder than Malovar's grim warning about the time of the testing. The fourth man moved ahead of the others, came toward him. In this minute it seemed to Boyd Larkin that he had aged years. Something that he had left back on Earth, left there because he could neither control it nor face it, had come unbidden to him here on Mars. In this moment, he wildly regretted that he had not fled to some outlying village during the hours of darkness. It was too late to flee now. He had to face the consequences. He forced himself to move forward, to hold out his hand. Inside of him, operating on an unconscious level, a kind of wild gladness came up. He forced it back down. This was no time for errant emotions. "Roy!" This man was his son. Roy Larkin took his father's hand indifferently. "Hi," he said, and dropped the hand. With horribly mixed memories flooding through him, Boyd Larkin stared at this man who was his son. He remembered this man in his play-pen, a curly headed tot fiercely demanding his toys. He remembered him in high school, the kid who was going to be the best athlete in school, or else. The hard driving, I-don't-give-a-damn-what-happens-to-you, I'll-get-mine attitude had been obvious in him even then.