Checkers was better. They could both see the board, and disagreement was impossible.

A loud metallic knocking at the door of the compartment interrupted the game. Joe-Jim unsheathed his throwing knife and cradled it, ready for quick use. “Come in!” roared Jim.

The door opened, the one who had knocked backed into the room—the only safe way, as everyone knew, to enter Joe-Jim’s presence. The newcomer was squat and ruggedly powerful, not over four feet in height. The relaxed body of a man hung across one shoulder and was steadied by a hand.

Joe-Jim returned the knife to its sheath. “Put it down, Bobo,” Jim ordered.

“And close the door,” added Joe. “Now what have we got here?”

It was a young man, apparently dead, though no wound appeared on him. Bobo patted a thigh. “Eat ’im?” he said hopefully. Saliva spilled out of his still-opened lips.

“Maybe,” temporized Jim. “Did you kill him?”

Bobo shook his undersized head.

“Good Bobo,” Joe approved. “Where did you hit him?”

“Bobo hit him there.” The microcephalic shoved a broad thumb against the supine figure in the area between the umbilicus and the breastbone.

“Good shot,” Joe approved. “We couldn’t have done better with a knife.”

“Bobo good shot,” the dwarf agreed blandly. “Want see?” He twitched his slingshot invitingly.

“Shut up,” answered Joe, not unkindly. “No, we don’t want to see; we want to make him talk.”

“Bobo fix,” the short one agreed, and started with simple brutality to carry out his purpose.

Joe-Jim slapped him away, and applied other methods, painful but considerably less drastic than those of the dwarf. The younger man jerked and opened his eyes.

“Eat ’im?” repeated Bobo.

“No,” said Joe. “When did you eat last?” inquired Jim.

Bobo shook his head and rubbed his stomach, indicating with graphic pantomime that it had been a long time—too long. Joe-Jim went over to a locker, opened it, and withdrew a haunch of meat. He held it up. Jim smelled it and Joe drew his head away in nosewrinkling disgust. Joe-Jim threw it to Bobo, who snatched it happily out of the air. “Now, get out,” ordered Jim.

Bobo trotted away, closing the door behind him. Joe-Jim turned to the captive and prodded him with his foot. “Speak up,” said Jim. “Who the Huff are you?”

The young man shivered, put a hand to his head, then seemed suddenly to bring his surroundings into focus, for he scrambled to his feet, moving awkwardly against the low weight conditions of this level, and reached for his knife.

It was not at his belt.

Joe-Jim had his own out and brandished it. “Be good and you won’t get hurt. What do they call you?”

The young man wet his lips, and his eyes hurried about the room.

“Speak up,” said Joe.

“Why bother with him?” inquired Jim. “I’d say he was only good for meat. Better call Bobo back.”

“No hurry about that,” Joe answered. “I want to talk to him. What’s your name?”

The prisoner looked again at the knife and muttered, “Hugh Hoyland.”

“That doesn’t tell us much,” Jim commented. “What d’you do? What village do you come from? And what were you doing in mutie country?”

But this time Hoyland was sullen. Even the prick of the knife against his ribs caused him only to bite his lips.

“Shucks,” said Joe, “he’s only a stupid peasant. Let’s drop it.”

“Shall we finish him off?”

“No. Not now. Shut him up.”

Joe-Jim opened the door of a small side compartment, and urged Hugh in with the knife. He then closed and fastened the door and went back to his game. “Your move, Jim.”

The compartment in which Hugh was locked was dark. He soon satisfied himself by touch that the smooth steel walls were entirely featureless save for the solid, securely fastened door. Presently he lay down on the deck and gave himself up to fruitless thinking.

He had plenty of time to think, time to fall asleep and awaken more than once. And time to grow very hungry and very, very thirsty.

When Joe-Jim next took sufficient interest in his prisoner to open the door of the cell, Hoyland was not immediately in evidence. He had planned many times what he would do when the door opened and his chance came, but when the event arrived, he was too weak, semi-comatose. Joe-Jim dragged him out.

The disturbance roused him to partial comprehension. He sat up and stared around him.

“Ready to talk?” asked Jim.

Hoyland opened his mouth but no words came out.

“Can’t you see he’s too dry to talk?” Joe told his twin. Then to Hugh: “Will you talk if we give you some water?”

Hoyland looked puzzled, then nodded vigorously.

Joe-Jim returned in a moment with a mug of water. Hugh drank greedily, paused, seemed about to faint.

Joe-Jim took the mug from him. “That’s enough for now,” said Joe. ‘Tell us about yourself.”

Hugh did so. In detail, being prompted from time to time.

Hugh accepted a de facto condition of slavery with no particular resistance and no great disturbance of soul. The word “slave” was not in his vocabulary, but the condition was a commonplace in everything he had ever known. There had always been those who gave orders and those who carried them out—he could imagine no other condition, no other type of social organization. It was a fact of nature.

Though naturally he thought of escape.

Thinking about it was as far as he got. Joe-Jim guessed his thoughts and brought the matter out into the open. Joe told him, “Don’t go getting ideas, youngster. Without a knife you wouldn’t get three levels away in this part of the Ship. If you managed to steal a knife from me, you still wouldn’t make it down to high-weight. Besides, there’s Bobo.”

Hugh waited a moment, as was fitting, then said, “Bobo?”

Jim grinned and replied, “We told Bobo that you were his to butcher, if he liked, if you ever stuck your head out of our compartments without us. Now he sleeps outside the door and spends a lot of his time there.”

“It was only fair,” put in Joe. “He was disappointed when we decided to keep you.”