He returned to the hall, fed himself from the sustenator. The fire was warm, the rain hissed outside. He felt drowsy, torpid. He dozed for a few moments, then awoke with a start. Voices? Sweet woman-voices? Heart thumping like a hammer, he jumped up, peered around the hall. Nothing. He looked down the back passage, listened. Silence. He went out to the crevice, scanned the sky. The rain had become a heavy lashing torrent; the black fronds bowed, shivered; the forest sighed, wind moaned down the valley.

Barch went up to Big Hole, worked furiously, half in the rain, half out. When he finished, a double row of panels hung across the hole, flapping and bumping. Not good, but better than nothing.

He went back to the hall, sat staring into the fire, and so the day passed.

On the fourth morning, overcome by restlessness, he took up the raft. He landed precariously on the summit of Mount Kebali, stood looking out across Quodaras District. A smell of smoke hung in the air. Along the horizon Barch saw no less than twenty plumes of leaden vapor sweeping down the dank wind. As he watched a star-shaped flash of red fire burst up in the middle distance. Half a minute later, he felt a dull shock on his face, heard a rumble like thunder. Resisting the temptation to fly out over the city, Barch returned to the cave.

He spent half a day piling fronds of vegetation against the Big Hole panels. Backing off to inspect his work, he saw a barge sliding down into the valley.

Barch ran to the cave mouth, ducked behind his gun. He sighted through the finder; his hand went to the trigger… He frowned, squinted. These were no Podruods; in fact, there were women standing at the rail as well as men. Fifty or sixty of them, a bedraggled lot, apparently all of the same race, with skin and features not unlike his own.

The barge settled to the flat. The stairs snapped out; a thin bald man with a shrewd round face jumped to the ground, followed by a tall youth with dark hair. Barch could hear the voices, but not the words.

After a moment the rest of the passengers climbed down the ladder, stood looking uncertainly around the flat. The thin bald man spied Barch and the gun. He crouched. The others, following his gaze froze in consternation, their voices dwindled.

Barch called out in the Magarak pidgin-tongue, "Come up here where I can talk to you." The thin bald man and the dark-haired youth approached warily. "What brings you here?" Barch asked gruffly.

The thin man looked carefully behind Barch into the crevice. "You might call us fugitives. What about you?"

"The same."

The dark-haired youth said quietly aside, "If wild men come any wilder, let's go back to Podinsiras where it's safe."

"Might be he's a little off his rocker." Barch smiled bitterly. "I speak English myself." The newcomers stared at him.

"Forget it," said Barch wearily. "So I am a wild man; so I am off my rocker." He nodded toward the barge. "All of you from Earth?"

"We're what's left of Oakville, Iowa."

"Never heard of it."

"The Klau dropped an army around town, herded us into their ship. This was two, three months ago. What's been going on since, we don't know; the slave revolt gave us a chance to bust loose."

"Slave revolt?"

"Yep, started about four days ago. Somebody blew up the main headquarters with most of the Klau big shots. Ever since Magarak's been a madhouse."

"Well, well," said Barch. "And now what do you intend to do?"

"Well," said the thin man, "we figured we'd try to get back to Earth by hook or by crook. My name's Smith, by the way; this is my son Tim."

"I'm Roy Barch."

Smith gestured to the barge. "I understand these things run on the same principle as the spaceships-grab at space and pull themselves along. Now if maybe we could make one of these air-tight-"

Barch sat down on a rock, ran his hand through his hair.

"What's the matter?" asked the thin man. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," said Barch. "It's just that you've come to the right place. I organize these parties. I'm a specialist on them." He heaved a deep sigh. "You really want to leave Magarak?"

"Naturally."

"You're willing to work, take a few risks, maybe-" Barch held up the stump of his left arm. "Yes!"

"All right, you've got a partner. Let's get busy. Take your barge around the corner. I'll let down the sheets and we'll slide it into the Big Hole."

Barch jumped to his feet. Smith and his son Tim backed away a little.

"I'm harmless," said Barch. "Just anxious. This time I'll do it right."

"Sure, sure," said Smith soothingly.

"Tonight we go out stealing. I know the routine cold. First we get the accr at the quarry. Next we go after Lenape. We've already got plenty of sustenators, but we do need a few Lenape. Something might go wrong with the inner workings en route and none of us could fix it."

Smith asked anxiously. "You feeling all right, son?"

"I feel fine," said Barch. "Let's get busy."

Double-Ark II rose into the twilight. Barch looked down into Palkwarkz Ztvo, hating the black forest, the black mountains, the interminable drizzle. And yet-he looked along the length of the valley-he had experienced a great deal here; he had accomplished much. "Wish I had a photograph of the place," he said over his shoulder to Tim.

Tim clutched his arm. "Look."

Barch twisted sharply. Through the clouds flickered a dozen long dark shapes. The overcast swirled aside for an instant; the shapes showed as long torpedoes. The overcast closed; the shapes were gone.

"Those weren't Klau ships," said Barch thoughtfully.

"No, I guess not."

"I thought I saw some kind of emblem on the first one."

Tim hesitated. "I did too. But I think I was wrong. It couldn't be what I thought it was."

"United Nations emblem?"

"But it couldn't be."

"No. It couldn't be. Of course we were budding spaceships, but-it's impossible."

There was a knock on the door of Barch's room in the St. Francis Hotel. Barch looked up from the newspaper. "Who is it?"

"Tim Smith."

Barch rose to his feet. "If it's a reporter, I'll break your neck."

He swung open the door. Tim Smith came in. "Just me."

Barch looked up and down the corridor, shut and locked the door. "I've been besieged the last couple days." He rapped the newspaper with the back of his hand. "I'd like to know how this stuff got out."

Tim Smith picked it up, read the headline: RAZING OF ENEMY WAR INDUSTRIES REACHES HALFWAY MARK.

"Is that what you're talking about?"

"No," said Barch. "This feature article, by-lined Cyril Heats." He took the newspaper. "Listen:

"The break-up of the Klau Empire under the pounding of the great Lenau-Lekthwan-Earth-Bakaima Coalition is now history and Earthmen will always glory in the fact that their fledgling Space-Navy dealt the first effective blow against the Klau slave-worlds.

"As a significant sidelight to this tremendous epoch in our history comes the news that one Roy Barch of San Francisco, captured by the Klau five years ago, can claim the honor of being the first Earthman to strike back at the Klau.

"A few days ago the epic four-year voyage of the Double-Ark II was chronicled on these pages. Readers will remember that a heroic group of Earthmen, enslaved during the original Klau raids, won back to Earth in a makeshift spaceship. It has now been revealed that the great Magarak slave revolt, which contributed so strikingly to the success of the original Punitive Expedition, was the result of Barch's one-man assault against the Klau…"

Barch threw down the paper. "It goes on from there. Barch this, Barch that!" He ran his hand through his hair. "What beats me is, how did it get out?"

"Somebody must have spilled the beans," said Tim blandly.