A great hairy frog of a man stood before Blade. By his side was a slim and still lovely woman with snow-white hair. They were backed up by a crowd of armed guards.

«I am Jantor, leader of the Gnomen,» the man said. He turned to the woman. «This is Sybelline, queen.» He looked around him at the bodies and at Sart kneeling near Blade in slavehood.

Jantor fixed his attention on Blade. «You killed them in fair fight?» he asked.

Blade nodded. «Ask your own people,» he said.

There was assent from the crowd. Jantor ordered the bodies dragged away and this was done. Then he advanced to Blade and stared at his genitals.

«You are well equipped. I hope it is not all show. Can you father children?»

Blade began to wish he had a pair of pants. Why this obsession with his potency? The Gnomen had children. There were several staring at him at the moment.

But wisely he asked no questions. He was exhausted and his life depended on Jantor's whim. Both men knew it. Jantor, with a wave of his hand, summoned a hundred men to stand beside him. They were all armed with the cruel iron bars.

So Blade said, «Yes. I can have children.»

Jantor, his great bald head gleaming, smiled slightly and said, «I hope you do not lie to me. I need you. All the Gnomen need you. For I alone of all the men can have children. All these you see are mine-and the work grows too much for me. I am no longer a young man. So you have a choice, stranger. Live and make children, or die here and now. Which will it be?»

Blade decided to try his charm. He smiled back at the toad-like man and laughed. «That is no hard choice to make. And I am called Blade in my own land. Richard Blade.»

Jantor waved a careless hand. «I do not care about your name, nor where you came from. You agree, then? Good! Come with me.»

In all this time the white-haired woman had not spoken. But she had been watching Blade intently with long green eyes. Blade especially noted her eyes, for green was not the color of Gnomen eyes, and he also made careful note of her slim and graceful body, wrapped in a black robe, and her firm and unwrinkled complexion. Only her snowy hair bespoke her age. He guessed then that this woman, this Sybelline, was the real power among the Gnomen.

A moment later his guess was confirmed. Jantor fixed an eye on the anxious Sart and gave an order. «That one to the five-mile pits.» Six armed men moved forward.

Blade held up a hand. He explained that Sart was now his slave. He spoke loudly, firmly, coming on as strong as he dared. He knew that his position was still tenuous, balanced on the razor's edge, but he pressed matters a bit. He could not afford to let Jantor win an unqualified victory.

Jantor grew angry. He did not like being defied. Blade gripped his iron bar and made ready for the rush that would, no doubt, kill him. Then the woman whispered in Jantor's ear for a moment. She smiled at Blade with dazzling white teeth, but did not address him.

Jantor scowled, then shrugged his hairy shoulders in resignation. He nodded at Blade. «Very well. Sart is slave to you from this day on. You are responsible for him. Do not forget that. Under our law a master is responsible for the crimes of his slave, for his every deed. Now will you come with me? There is work to be done.»

For the next several days Blade led a strange existence. He was put out to stud.

There was no other word for it. Blade was spared, given a comfortable bricked-in apartment off a secondary tunnel, and put to work. He was, so to speak, on probation. If he could produce children-the gestation period of the Gnomen women was only seven months-his life would be spared. When Jantor died, Blade might well become King in his stead.

Jantor and Sybelline had not minced words. They were both fundamentalists, pragmatic in the extreme, and had evinced little interest in the big stranger other than his capacity to plant his seed in Gnomen women.

So now Blade was working. He was-and Blade could be vulgar when he chose-screwing for a living, to be more exact, for his life. And he was, thank God, potent again. He had better be. It was hard to believe he had been impotent now that he must achieve erection from ten to fifteen times a day.

At the moment, he was resting between jobs. Sart was in another room preparing a meal. Blade lay on his soft bed and contemplated his surroundings. The apartment was furnished and decorated with articles brought into the sewers from above. He knew by this time that the sleepers aboveground were called Morphi and that they had been asleep for, what he reckoned in HD time, would be a century or more. Other than this he knew very little. He had tried questioning Sart, with little result. The man proved to be, so far, loyal and simple. He simply did not know anything of Gnomen history. By questioning him and studying him, Blade grasped the essential fact about these Gnomen-they had a very brief attention span. About that of a three-year-old in HD. Sart was a case in point. When a thing was past, he forgot it, and he did not think of the future except in terms of punishment. He was, as were all the common Gnomen, deathly afraid of the five-mile pits. But mostly the Gnomen lived in the present.

Sart pushed his head through the door curtain. «It is time, master.»

Blade nodded wearily. «Send her in.»

The woman who entered was short and muscular, with thick, bowed legs. She was bare-breasted and wore the simple denim skirt of the Gnomen women. Her eyes were the usual brown, her nose pug and her mouth wide. She did not smell very clean, but by now Blade was used to that. None of the ordinary Gnomen women were clean. Nor the men, for that matter.

The woman did not look at Blade or speak. She walked to the bed and tumbled on it. Blade sighed and mounted her. It was over soon and she left, still without speaking or looking directly at him.

Blade called to Sart. «I will eat now and have a bath and a change of clothes. No more women for an hour. Tell them.»

«Yes, master.»

Blade lay on the bed, weary, thinking that perhaps it would be best if he got out of this situation-if he could do it alive-and somehow make his way to the giant moon. He had not seen that monster since his descent into the sewers, but he had picked up stray bits of information about it.

The moon, as he thought of it, was inhabited by a superior race of beings called the Selenes. The Gnomen called them orbfolk and were afraid of them. Blade, with the little information he could gather, guessed that the Selenes had warred with the Morphi and the Selenes had won. Somehow they had managed to cut off the power and put the Morphi into a death-like trance. How or why or when, he had no idea. Sart did not know, or would not tell. Blade didn't think that his slave was lying or being devious; the Gnomen were simply a low form of human animal that lived entirely for the present.

Blade moved restlessly on the bed. He heard Sart push through the door hanging and say something to the line of women waiting outside. Blade grinned wryly at the thought of the strange queue-a line a block long of women waiting, hoping to be made pregnant by a strange man.

For a moment, furious impatience raged in Blade. He wanted to be up and out and about, doing and discovering, finding out things, exploiting this Dimension X for England, and yet here he was at stud and no better than any other prisoner-no better off than Sart, really. In fact he didn't have the freedom of Sart, who could come and go as he pleased. Let Blade poke his head out of the apartment and there were fifty men armed with the bars.

Only his sense of humor saved Blade, or had up to now. He finally laughed at himself and took his bath, humming a snatch of remembered tune… I'll never love again… had his lunch and dressed in some of the plastic clothes looted from above. He was stalling as long as he could. He was tired. So far that day he had serviced ten women-he ticked them off on a slate-and he did not really feel up to more female flesh at the moment. If only Jantor or Sybelline would send for him, take some notice of his existence. They ruled, so they must be of good intelligence, and from them he might gain some answers. At least escape from the deadly boredom that pressed in on him like a black cloud. Blade let a curse escape him. All he did-night and day, day and night-was service women. When he thought of all the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth in despair that he had done back in HD, he could not believe that he was the same man.