roof where the flitter rested? Raf's determination to get back to his
ship was a driving force.

The alien officer had watched him, and now a three-fingered hand was
laid on Raf's sleeve while its owner looked into Raf's face and
mouthed a trilling question.

Without much hope the pilot sketched the set of gestures he had used
before. And he was surprised when the other led the way down into the
building. This time they did not go back to the bridge, which had
brought them across the canyons of streets, but kept on down ramps
within the building.

There was a hum of activity in the place. Aliens, all in tight black
wrappings and burnished metal breastplates, their faces barred with
black and white paint, went on errands through the halls or labored at
tasks Raf could not understand. It now seemed as if his guide were
eager to get him away.

It was when they reached the street level that the officer did pause
by one door, beckoning Raf imperiously to join him. The Terran obeyed
reluctantly--and was almost sick.

He was staring down at a dead, very dead body. By the stained rags
still clinging to it, it was one of the aliens, a noble, not one of
the black-clad warriors. The gaping wounds which had almost torn the
unfortunate apart were like nothing Raf had ever seen.

With a guttural sound which expressed his feelings as well as any
words, the officer picked up from the floor a broken spear, the barbed