anywhere.

For some distance they went through a geometric maze of streets. And
then there was a cathedral-like building all arched and spired,
standing in the center of a twelve-pointed plaza. Here they turned, and
bore their captives in.

Stark saw a vaulted roof, very slim and high, etched with a glittering
tracery that might have been carving of an alien sort, delicate as the
weavings of spiders. The feet of his bearers were silent on the icy
paving.

At the far end of the long vault sat seven of the shining ones in high
seats marvellously shaped from the ice. And before them, grey-faced,
shuddering with cold and not noticing it, drugged with a sick horror,
stood Balin. He looked around once, and did not speak.

Stark was set on his feet, with Ciara beside him. He saw her face, and
it was terrible to see the fear in her eyes, that had never shown fear
before.

He himself was learning why men went mad beyond the Gates of Death.

Chill, dreadful fingers touched him expertly. A flash of pain drove down
his spine, and he could stand again.

The seven who sat in the high seats were motionless, their bright
tendrils stirring with infinite delicacy as though they studied the
three humans who stood before them.

Stark thought he could feel a cold, soft fingering of his brain. It came
to him that these creatures were probably telepaths. They lacked organs
of speech, and yet they must have some efficient means of
communications. Telepathy was not uncommon among the many races of the
Solar System, and Stark had had experience with it before.

He forced his mind to relax. The alien impulse was instantly stronger.
He sent out his own questing thought and felt it brush the edges of a
consciousness so utterly foreign to his own that he knew he could never
probe it, even had he had the skill.

He learned one thing--that the shining faceless ones looked upon him
with equal horror and loathing. They recoiled from the unnatural human
features, and most of all, most strongly, they abhorred the warmth of
human flesh. Even the infinitesimal amount of heat radiated by their
half-frozen human bodies caused the ice-folk discomfort.

Stark marshalled his imperfect abilities and projected a mental question
to the seven.

"What do you want of us?"

The answer came back, faint and imperfect, as though the gap between
their alien minds was almost too great to bridge. And the answer was one
word.

"_Freedom!_"

Balin spoke s