“When a man is sick,” he growled, “the body and all its senses become traitor. I don’t think I have cried since I was a child-but you must realize it’s not myself I’m crying for. It’s the untold thousands of my people who have died for lack of that little device you treat so casually.”

“Surely you have medicines, doctors of your own?”

“Herb doctors and witch doctors,” Rues said, consigning them all oblivion with a chop of his hand. “The few hard working and honest men are hampered by the fact that the faith healers can usually cure better than their strongest potion.”

The talking had tired Rhes. He stopped suddenly and closed his eyes. On his chest, the inflamed areas were already losing their angry color as the injections took effect. Jason glanced around the room, looking for clues to the mystery of these people.

Floor and walls were made of wood lengths fitted together, free of paint or decoration. They looked simple and crude, fit only for the savages he had expected to meet. Or were they crude? The wood had a sweeping, flame-like grain. When he bent close he saw that wax had been rubbed over the wood to bring out this pattern. Was this the act of savages-or of artistic men seeking to make the most of simple materials? The final effect was far superior to the drab-paint and riveted-steel rooms of the city dwelling Pyrrans. Wasn’t it true that both ends of the artistic scale were dominated by simplicity? The untutored aborigine made a simple expression of a clear idea, and created beauty. At the other extreme, the sophisticated critic rejected over-elaboration and decoration and sought the truthful clarity of uncluttered art. At which end of the scale was he looking now?

These men were savages, he had been told that. They dressed in furs and spoke a slurred and broken language, at least Naxa did. Rhes admitted he preferred faith healers to doctors. But, if all this were true, where did the communicator fit into the picture?

Or the glowing ceiling that illuminated the room with a soft light?

Rhes opened his eyes and stared at Jason, as if seeing him for the first time. “Who are you?” he asked. “And what are you doing here?”

There was a cold menace in his words and Jason understood why. The city Pyrrans hated the “grubbers” and, without a doubt, the feeling was mutual. Naxa’s axe had proved that. Naxa had entered silently while they talked, and stood with his fingers touching the haft of this same axe. Jason knew his life was still in jeopardy, until he gave an answer that satisfied these men.

He couldn’t tell the truth. If they once suspected he was spying among them to aid the city people, it would be the end.

Nevertheless, he had to be free to talk about the survival problem.