'How are you going to get it away from him?'

Orme didn't reply. He was imagining picking the man's pocket. If he could substitute something that felt like the activator so Ya'aqob wouldn't miss the real device... but the transfer would have to be made just after Ya'aqob had pressed its button. That would cut it close, and his attention, the attention of the others, too, would have to be diverted. If Bronski would co-operate to make a scene, it could be done.

However, if the device had to be activated to make the wall slide back down, then Ya'aqob would discover at once that he'd been slipped a fake. It seemed probable that this was the way it was done. Unless the wall slid down after a preset time without another wave-emission. No, that was too much to hope for. Though their captors usually walked out as soon as the wall rose high enough, there had been one time when they'd stood talking for at least ninety seconds.

Now, if he could determine that the other five also carried activators or that at least one other did, then he could make two dummies. But that involved picking two pockets. It also required that he cause the wall to come down at the same time that Ya'aqob pressed the button - or whatever he did.

How to make the counterfeits? He had no materials to carve one and no knife. Beside, they'd be watched on TV, which meant he'd have to escape the eyes of the monitors when he stole the devices, and he'd have to do the carving in the bedroom where, presumably, he wasn't being watched.

And even if he did succeed in this elaborate plan, he still wouldn't know where to go or what to do once he got free. He had no idea where the tunnels were that led to the lander. Besides, their entrance would be guarded. These guys weren't stupid.

What about the Sabbath? Wouldn't the sentinels be home on that day? Maybe. Even if they were, there would be automatic alarm equipment. Considering the difficulties, he had to admit that Bronski was probably right. Escape seemed impossible. However, if they should be allowed out of their prison, they would, even if guarded, have a much better chance.

Bronski, who had been sitting wordless, his eyes rolling slowly, abruptly broke his silence.

'I've got it!'

'What?'

'I've been calculating. Today will also be the Sabbath in Israel. It could be just coincidence, but I don't think so.'

Bronski looked as pleased as Moses must have been when his spies brought word that Palestine, land of milk and honey, was ripe for the plucking.

'Interesting,' Orme said, 'but I wish you'd bring that great intellect to bear on getting out of here.'

'It'd be a nice exercise of the mind but practically unfeasible. Anyway, if you want the truth, Richard, I don't think I'd leave if I could. There's too much to learn.'

'What if I ordered you to do so?'

Bronski shrugged. 'You're the captain.'

He rose slowly and strolled to the window-wall.

'Here they come for the sun ceremony.'

After the ritual, or public prayer, or whatever it was, the crowds broke up into smaller masses, each of which went into a wide building on top of a low hill of stone, ascending by twelve broad steps cut into the stone.

'Synagogues,' Bronski said. 'The architecture is interesting. They have twelve sides, and the inner parts of the roof fold or slide in to expose the interior to the sunlight. The corners of the roof turn up. The carvings at the ends look like symbolic hands. They're not really representations, but they do suggest folded hands, praying hands.'

The rest of the day passed with Bronski stationed like a sentinel against the wall, except that he had pulled up a chair to sit in, commenting aloud. Orme occasionally went to the wall when Bronski pointed out something interesting, such as the children playing outdoors after the noon meal. But his thoughts were mainly on getting away. If they could seize one of those ground vehicles at night, they could speed to wherever the tunnel entrance was. There were cars all over the place. From what he could observe when the six drove off, they had no keys. Apparently, the Martians didn't worry about theft.

Their supper was especially large and varied, and they ate the roast beef, baked fish, beans, lettuce, onions, gravy, and fruit salads with gusto. What surprised them were the roasted ears of maize, Indian corn, still wrapped in their husks.

'Corn certainly wasn't included in the diet of the Old World ancients,' Bronski said. 'The Krsh must have picked up specimens of vegetable life from all over Earth before they left.'

'You can see fields of wheat and barley from here,' Orme said. 'But no maize. They must grow it in other caves.'

'Or in fields so far away we can't see them.'

The next day was Sunday or yarn shamash, as it was called. Bronski had expected that it would be a normal workday. But as on the shabbat, no one went to work, except for the farmers, and they just fed the animals and fowl. There were three attendances at the synagogue, but the children played outdoors between the services. The greatest difference was the length of the noon outdoor ceremony. He'd timed the previous ones at ten minutes. Today's lasted twenty-four. During twelve of these, the crowd was silent while a cantor sang. The prisoners could hear and see everything clearly. The TV set was on. Bronski theorised that this was so that the sick and the very aged could watch it. The whole ritual was conducted in Hebrew.

'If I didn't know better, I'd swear they were worshipping the sun,' he said. 'I'll have to wait for an explanation. Still, the Essene sect had its hymn to the sun. Maybe this is something like that.'

Orme wondered why Hfathon hadn't told them they wouldn't be teaching on this day, too. But half an hour after the crowd broke up. Hfathon drove up with Zhkeesh.

When he entered, he greeted them with the usual 'Shalom aleikhum,' and then said, 'My colleagues are home with their families. Our children are grown up and so are with their children. But tonight we are having a big family gathering, so we must leave early to be with the head, of the family, my great-grandfather.'

'You are blessed indeed to have one,' Bronski said. 'I hope that he is in good health and of sound mind.'

'Not bad for a two hundred and forty year old man,' Hfathon said.

Bronski raised his eyebrows and so did Orme when the exchange was translated.

'Your medical science is far advanced over ours,' Bronski said. 'You're speaking in terms of Terrestrial years, not Martian, aren't you?'

'Of course.'

Orme, hearing this, said, 'If it'd been Martian years, he'd be about four hundred and eight years old. Wait'll the folks back home hear about this!'

Bronski considered briefly the implications of his statement. He shuddered.

'May I ask what age you are, Hfathon?'

'One hundred and sixty-nine.'

Orme whistled and said, 'He doesn't look much over fifty. Of course, he's Krsh, so it's hard to tell with him. They all look alike to me, anyway.'

Bronski said, 'Sha'ul seems to be about thirty. How old is he?'

'Eighty-two.'

Bronski said, 'This longevity is unnatural, isn't it? I mean, do you use chemicals or some sort of scientific preparations to slow your ageing?’

Hfathon said, 'Don't your people?'

Bronski thought about lying. But sooner or later the Martians would know the truth.

'No. We've been able to slow down ageing in laboratory animals to some extent, but nothing like what you have accomplished. So far, we've nothing for human beings.'

Hfathon and Zhkeesh sucked in their breaths.

'You still die like the beasts? As you did two thousand years ago?'

Bronski said nothing. The two Krsh must realise what the news would do to Terrestrials. Once they found out, they'd clamour for the treatment or elixir or whatever it was. If, that is, the Earth governments released the news. Though the world birth rate had declined since the Sixties, overpopulation was a terrible problem.