“They feed you well, these Skygors,” commented Planter to Glanfil as he finished his plateful.
“ ’Tis their fashion. They seek to make us happy.”
Planter went to the kettles for another helping of stew, and ate more slowly. “I’d rather eat in freedom,” he commented, half to himself.
“Freedom?” echoed Glanfil, as if scornful. “We hear of what freedom can be. Scant commons, rough beds, danger and damp. Better to toil honestly and fare well.”
“Aye,” said a bigger slave, with a spade beard of reddish tinge. “Did not the Skygors help our first fathers, stranger, as now they help you?”
“I’ve heard otherwise,” Planter rejoined. “It seems there was a fight—the men were licked—the survivors made captive and put to work. That’s what happened to me.”
“Best be silent,” murmured Glanfil, bending close. “That talk makes few friends.”
Planter changed the subject, asking various questions about Venus. His companions eyed him strangely as he displayed his ignorance, but made cheerful answer.
The noise that had overwhelmed him was a vibrating metal instrument, they said. Their description made it sound like an organ of sorts. As he had surmised, it was always in some sort of operation, and could be turned on full force if need be. The Skygors, with senses meant to endure great noises, were not hurt by such a din, but human ears would be tortured if not quickly closed. “Our labors give the instrument power,” informed Glanfil, rather proudly.
Planter thought over his experiences of the day. “The Skygors have many human devices,” he ventured.
“Aye, that,” agreed the big bearded one. “In the first days, our fathers brought many articles, which the Skygors developed and used.”
“There’s what I’m driving at!” Planter broke in, forgetting Glanfil’s council to be cautious. “They not only enslaved you, they took your ideas and improved themselves. I’ll wager they were savages to begin with! And you’re actually grateful for the chance to crawl at their big, webbed feet!”
“This world belongs to the Skygors,” spoke up one of the women as she washed dishes. “Without them we would be shelterless and foodless, like the weaklings they drove forth.”
Planter refrained to tell what he knew of the crossbow-girls. Plainly he was up against an attitude of content from which it would be hard to free his new companions—harder than to free them from guards and prison walls.
He slept that night in a hammock-like bed, and next day worked at the machine. His toil was long, but not sapping, and food was good. Once a Skygor came to take his clothing, shoes and possessions, giving him a sleeveless shirt and shorts instead. Otherwise he was not bothered by the masters of the city. For days—perhaps ten—he followed this routine, masking his feeling of revolt.
Then came a Skygor messenger to lead him away along underwater corridors to someone who had sent. At the end of the journey he entered an office. There sat the person he least expected to see.
Disbro.
“You rat,” Planter began, but Disbro waved the insult aside.
“Don’t be a bigger ape than usual,” he sniffed. “I’ve been able to do you a favor.”
“You didn’t do me much of a one when I was captured,” reminded Planter.
“How could I?” argued Disbro, in the charming fashion he could sometimes achieve. “I was only on probation. If I’d tried to help you then, we’d both be dead, instead of both on top of this Turkish Bath world. Sit down.” They took stools on opposite sides of a heavy, wooden table. “Planter, how would you like to help me run Venus?”
“You’re going to get away from these Skygors?”
Again Disbro waved the words away. “Why should I? I’ll run them, too. Look, we landed safely, didn’t we? Observations on Earth will show that, won’t they?”
“Right,” agreed Planter, mystified. “There’ll be more ships coming, to look for us and maybe set up a colony.”
“That’s it. We’ll ambush those ships.”
“Ambush?” repeated Planter sharply. “Losing your mind, Disbro?”
“No. I’m only thinking for all of us. Ships will come, I say. Loaded with supplies, valuables all sorts of things. We can overwhelm them as they land. Some of their crews will join us—the others can be rubbed out. And the law can’t touch us, Planter! Not for a minute!”
“What are you driving at?” Planter demanded.
“I’m the law,” said Disbro, tapping his chest. “Just now I string with the Skygors. Later I may knock ’em off. But anyway, I’m the commander of the first expedition to land on Venus. I have a right to take possession, in my own name.” He got up, his voice rising clear and proud. “Possession, like Columbus! Not of a continent—of a whole world!”
Planter, leaning forward on his stool, clutched the edge of the table so strongly that his knuckles whitened.
“And what,” he asked slowly and quietly, “do you want me to do?”
“I’m coming to that,” said Disbro, smiling with superior craftiness. “You’re going to help me solidify these loud-mouthed Skygors.”
“They hold me for a slave,” reminded Planter harshly, for he did not like the life as well as Glanfil and the others who toiled among the clockwork. But Disbro brushed the complaint aside.
“That’s because they don’t know what I know. Your lady friends, I mean.”
Planter glanced up sharply. Disbro chuckled.
“I talk a lot with these Skygors. Not bad fellows, if you muffle your ears. Anyway, they tell me about a herd of wild girls that bushwacks them constantly, and which they hope I’ll find and destroy. Lately some of those girls have been scouting around, yelling for something. The Skygors haven’t the best of English, and don’t know what the words mean. But I do. Those girls are calling your name. David Planter.”
Mara had come back for him, then. She braved the terrors of the Skygor fortress, trying to get him back. Planter felt warmth around his heart. He faced Disbro and shook
