niac
land.

* * * * *

Again red guards came. The wicked breath of their weapons filled the
great room where Rawson had been with green, flickering light. Dean,
dragged to his feet, was unable to stand. One of the giant yellow
workers came forward at a whistled order and held him erect. Another
brought a bowl carved from rock crystal and filled with a liquid
golden-green with reflected light. He put it to Rawson's lips and with
the first touch Dean knew that he must have been filled with a burning
thirst beyond anything he had ever known. He gulped greedily at the
liquid, drained the bowl to the last drop, then marveled at the
thrilling fire of strength that flowed through him.

"Wine," he thought, "wine of the gods--or devils." He came to himself
with a start. He knew that he was naked and that his body was encased
in a coating of stiff gray plaster. It was this that prevented his
arms and legs from flexing.

Another order and the giant worker picked him up in his arms and
carried him where the others led to a distant room. A stream trickled
through a cut in the rocky floor. At the center of the room was a
pool. Unable to resist, Dean felt the giant arms toss him out and
down.

The water was warm. At its first touch the hard plaster melted like
snow. Sputtering and choking for breath, Rawson came to the surface.
He found he could move freely, then reaching hands hauled him out
upon the floor, and through all his dread he found time to marvel at
his own firm muscles and the healthy white of his skin that had been
seared and blistered.

He obeyed when the red guards pointed and motioned him into a dark
passageway. He tried to keep up with them as they hurried him on.
Evidently his pace was too slow, for again the big worker picked him
up, swung him into the air and seated him firmly on one broad
shoulder, and, with red guards ahead and behind them, hurried on.

To find himself a child in the hands of this big yellow man was
disconcerting. To be calmly lugged off was almost humiliating. No one
who was not a good sport could have grinned as Rawson did at his own
predicament.

"Not exactly a triumphal procession," he told himself, then his lips
set grimly. "They've got my gun," he thought, "and now, whatever
comes, all I can do is stand and take it. Still, they've saved my
life. But what for?"

* * * * *

Always the way led downward, and Rawson, pe