on the tiers of seats. But the place which
had been built to accommodate at least a thousand spectators now
housed less than half the number. If this was the extent of the alien
nation, it was the dregs of a dwindling race.

Directly below where Raf lingered in an aisle dividing the tiers of
seats, there was a manhole opening with a barred gate across it, an
entrance to the sand-covered enclosure. And fortunately the aliens
were all clustered close to the oval far from that spot.

Also the attention of the audience was firmly riveted on events below.
A door at the sand level had been flung open, and through it was now
hustled the prisoner. Either the aliens still possessed some idea of
fair play or they hoped to prolong a contest to satisfy their own
pleasure, for the captive's hands were unbound and he clutched a
spear.

Remembering far-off legends of earlier and more savage civilizations
on his own world, Raf was now sure that the lone man below was about
to fight for his life. The question was, against what?

Another of the mouthlike openings around the edge of the arena opened,
and one of the furry people shambled out, weaving weakly from side to
side as he came, a spear in his scaled paws. He halted a step or two
into the open, his round head swinging from side to side, spittle
drooling from his gaping mouth. His body was covered with raw sores
and bare patches from which the fur had been torn away, and it was
apparent that he had long been the victim of ill-usage, if not
torture.

Shrill cries arose from the alien spectators as the furred one blinked
in the light and then sighted the man some feet away. He stiffened,
his arm drew back, the spear poised. Then as suddenly it dropped to
his side, and he fell on his knees before wriggling across the sand,
his paws held out imploringly to his fellow captive.

The cries from the watching aliens were threatening. Several rose in
their seats gesturing to the two below. And Raf, thankful for their
absorption, sped down to the manhole, discovering to his delight it
could be readily opened from his side. As he edged it around, there
was another sound below. This was no high-pitched fluting from aliens
deprived of their sport, but a hissing nightmare cry.

Raf's line of vision, limited by the door, framed a portion of scaled
back, as it looked, immediately below him. His hand went to the blast
bombs as he descended the runway, and his boots hit the sand just as
the