Barch steadied his voice. "Well?"

"We're in a Klau ship."

"Where are they taking us? Why haven't they killed us?" Komeitk Lelianr shrugged. "Corpses are valueless. We probably will end up at Magarak."

"Magarak?"

"A manufacturing center."

"But-"

"We're slaves."

"Oh." Before Barch's eyes flashed scenes of Earth, like color slides. All this he was leaving. All this he would see no more. In a strained voice he said, "And what is this Magarak like?"

"Gray. Dank. Cold."

Barch felt a spasm of rage-toward Komeitk Lelianr, toward the Lekthwans. Why should he suffer in their quarrel? "Why don't the Lekthwans do something about these Klau?"

Komeitk Lelianr smiled half-contemptuously. "There are three Lekthwan planets, forty-two Klau worlds. There is war between us that perhaps you cannot completely understand -a long-range combat of our moral vitality. In the end we will win. Meanwhile many people suffer." She shrugged. "The universe is not a paradise."

"No," said Barch. Earth suddenly seemed very small and negligible, a bucolic backwater off to one side of the space-empires. "So then-we spend the rest of our lives on Magarak?"

She made no answer. Barch glanced desperately around the glowing walls. "Can't we be ransomed, can't we escape?"

She spoke slowly, as if to a child. "Ransom is inapplicable; there is no medium of exchange between Lekthwa and the Klau. The Klau have energy, raw material, technical skill. Labor is the scarcest commodity of the universe; labor is the Klau wealth."

"And escape?"

She shrugged. "Recently a dozen Lenape hid in a false cargo blister, and reached the Maha Triad. If they find a way home to Lenau, the Klau will suffer. If they are recaptured -the Klau will use them to discourage others."

"The main difficulty seems to be in leaving the planet."

"Exactly."

Time passed, perhaps two days. Three times the walls swelled into blisters, bursting with a pop to eject packets of gray mush into the cell.

Komeitk Lelianr had completely withdrawn into herself. She spoke no words to Barch, ignored the food. Finally Barch pushed himself across to her. "If you don't eat, you'll be weak. You'll get sick."

She looked at him languidly. "What then?"

Barch truculently knit his brows. "What's the trouble? Given up?"

"What is there to give up?"

"Confidence."

She said in a soft voice, "We're slaves; slaves have no need for confidence."

"I'm not a slave until I feel like a slave."

Something seemed to give way inside of her. Her voice became harsh. "You have no concept of Magarak's reality; you refuse to think; you live by ready-made emotional doctrines-a substitute for thought. What is worse, you try to wrench reality to fit your ideas."

"I've heard all that before," said Barch evenly. "Sometimes the emotional doctrines work out. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because neither you nor I are really pals with reality. We don't know whose emotional doctrine fits. Anyway, whether it's impossible or not, if there's a way out of this Magarak slave camp I'll try to find it-and I'll take you with me if I can.

She said wearily, "Your ideas are not well-formed. You can't escape Magarak merely because you have the will to escape."

Barch laughed grimly. "I certainly can't escape without it. Those twelve Lenape got loose."

"There's a great difference; they are a highly developed race; they have a feeling for the organization of Magarak.

Also, they were in a position to control the growth of the ship on which they escaped."

"Growth?"

"Yes, certainly. Ships are grown, like you Earthers grow cabbages. The Lenapes are experts in the techniques of growth matter; on Lenau they grow their dwellings, their ocean-ships their air-ships. On Lekthwa much the same is true."

Barch grinned. "That's a point of difference between us. We grow our food and build our space-ships. You grow your ships and build your food."

Komeitk Lelianr said listlessly, "It's easier to grow ships than to build them. When you become proficient in spaceship design you will recognize the advantages."

"Well, cabbages, space-ships, Lenape aside, there are other ways of escape."

"How?" She laughed shortly. "You know nothing of Magarak. You cannot imagine it. It's not a matter of killing a guard, jumping a fence and running."

"I didn't say I'd succeed. I said I'd try."

She smiled. "Yes. The dynamic thrust of your race."

Barch looked at her with near-dislike. "Call it anything you want. Maybe when a race gets old like yours, it gets stale, sour."

"Perhaps." She stretched out her legs, her arms. After a moment she turned her head, looked at him with what seemed new curiosity. "Your optimism is stimulating, in any event."

Barch grinned. Ages ago, Claude Darran had spoken of Barch's capacity for optimism in different terms.

As if following his thoughts, Komeitk Lelianr murmured, "What strange life-lines we weave through the cosmic gel. Three days ago…"

For the first time, Barch saw tears in her eyes.

Time passed.

Without warning, the cell burst open. White light dazzled their eyes; there was a wave of sound, a tumble of black shapes. The white light cut off, the walls were whole. The cell suddenly seemed full of ill-smelling flesh.

Barch pressed back against the wall. There were eight newcomers, six men, two women: squat white creatures with moist bulldog faces. They wore thread-bare gray smocks, leather stockings, shoes like blobs of yellow gum.

Komeitk Lelianr said tonelessly, "Modoks. I thought it strange the hold was given to us alone."

Warily Barch watched the sight. Their faces showed no emotion, no expression. There was a hoarse conversation, then dead silence while all of them inspected Barch and Komeitk Lelianr.

Komeitk Lelianr said with a tinge of interest in her voice, "I would fit them approximately at 14-90, by the Epignotic Cultural Calculation. Notice the cloth of their garments; durable, shaped rather than woven; their shoes, molded permanently to their feet. These must be outdoor serfs, in the service of a Technics Lord."

Barch made a non-committal sound.

"Not an uncommon pattern around the universe," she went on in a monotone. "Their lot will change little for better or worse."

Barch muttered, "I wonder how much longer we'll be in this hold."

"Are you anxious for Magarak?"

"No, but I don't like the smell here."

"You might sometime wish yourself back in this cell."

"Do you think they'll separate us?"

"Certainly," she said in a flat voice. "First the slaves are graded at rough intellectual levels; they must pass through a hall filled with traps, pitfalls, obstacles, unpleasant sensations, and the like, which they avoid according to their intelligence. After this first division, the lower grades are classified by physique, agility, dexterity." She looked across the cell. "These serfs will probably go out to the mud-flats along Xolboar Sea, a great reclamation project, which uses up thousands of labor-units a year."

"And how about us?"

"A thousand possibilities."

Barch awoke to a sound of harsh voices. He crouched instinctively, slowly relaxed. Two of the blank-faced serfs were fighting, clawing clumsily at each other's faces. The remaining men and the women watched critically.

"Disgusting animals," said Komeitk Lelianr.

One of the contestants suddenly ceased to fight. The other put his legs against the square back, jerked back at the head. The eyes stared up, the neck snapped. There came a sudden raucous babble.

"What are they fighting about?" Barch asked in bewilderment.

"Impossible to say."

"Look!"

The two women were slapping at the man who had conquered, stolidly without anger. At last he threw up his hands as if in defeat, crossed to a man who had been watching, caught him by the neck, smashed his head against the wall until the skull became like jelly. The women spoke on angrily for a few moments, then appeared to lose interest. No one heeded the limp bodies. There were a few dark glances cast toward Barch and Komeitk Lelianr, one or two monosyllables, then silence.