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We had gone but a short distance into the “city” when our ancient guide paused, turning to stare down a deserted passage.

“He says,” grunted Tipene—as near a grunt as the high-pitched Zenian voice is capable of, “that they’re down there. He asks that we go and get them; he is afraid. They have killed two of the Aranians already with their atomic pistols.”

“For which I don’t blame them in the least,” said Correy. “I’d get as many as I could before I let them sink their mandibles into me.”

“But I thought they were hostages, and being treated as such?”

“The Aranians got tired of waiting; some of the younger ones tried to do their own executing,” explained Tipene. “The whole brood of them is in an ugly mood, the old fellow tells me. We were fools to come!”

I didn’t argue the matter. You can’t argue such a matter with a man like Tipene. Instead, I lifted my voice in a shout which echoed down the long corridors.

“Brady! Inverness! Can you hear us?”

For a moment there was no reply, and then, as our ethon lights played hopefully along the passage, a circular door opened, and Inverness, his pistol drawn, peered out at us. A moment later, both he and Brady were running toward us.