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The opening of the door brought Han out of a troubled sleep filled with visions of strangers doing terrible things to the Millennium Falcon.

Then, abruptly, Survivors wearing their extravagant costumes dashed into the quiet chamber, carrying glow-rods and weapons, making resistance sheer folly. Their weapons were a fascinating assortment: ancient beam-tubes powered by heavy backpacks, antiquated solid-projectile firearms, and several spring-loaded harpoon guns of the sort the lake men used. Han’s worse fear, that the Survivors would use their anaesthetic gas again and thus preclude any action on their captives’ part, was unrealized. He found himself breathing easier for that; he had no intention of ending his life passively.

With shouted instructions and gesticulations the Survivors herded their captives out of the chamber. They formed a forward and rear guard, keeping their weapons trained watchfully so there would be no opportunity for mishap. Chewbacca rumbled angrily through it all and nearly turned on one Survivor, who had jabbed the Wookiee with a harpoon gun to hurry him along. Han restrained his friend; all the other Survivors were out of reach, and there was no place to hide in the stone corridors. They had no choice but to move as ordered.

This time Han got a clearer impression of the underground warren. The corridors, like the chamber in which they had been held, were carefully and precisely cut, arranged along an organized central plan, their walls, floors, and ceilings fused solid to serve as support. Thermal plates warmed them, but Han could see no dehumidifying equipment, though he was certain it must exist. Everything implied a technology in excess of what the Survivors seemed capable of fully utilizing. Han was willing to bet these capering primitives did simple maintenance by rote and that the knowledge of the original builders had been lost long ago.

He saw unhelmeted Survivors for the first time, mainbreed humans who, aside from an unusual number of congenital defects, were unremarkable. The prisoners passed heated, well-lit hydroponic layouts. The glow-rods and thermal plates in them made Han wonder about the power source; something suitably ancient, he presumed, perhaps even an atomic pile.

Badure’s thoughts had been paralleling his own. “Regression,” the old man said. “Maybe the base was built by stranded explorers, or early colonists?”

“That wouldn’t explain their unreasoning shunning of the other Dellaltians,” Skynx put in. “They must have taken elaborate precautions to avoid notice all this time, even in these desolate—”

He was silenced when a Survivor singled him out with the end of a beam-tube, gesturing with unmistakable fury. Conversation stopped. Han saw that Bollux had been right; the warren had clearly been built for many more people than now occupied it. In some stretches light and heat had been shut down to conserve power or had failed altogether.

They passed a room from which odd, rhythmic sounds issued. For just an instant when he drew even with the doorway, Han had a view of the interior.

Colored lights strobed in the darkness, flashing on the walls and ceiling in arresting swirls and patterns. Someone was chanting in the Survivors’ tongue; underscoring the chant was the pulsing of a transonic synthesizer, as much felt as heard.

Han almost stopped short and had to step quickly to keep from being jabbed with a harpoon, thinking, Hypno-imprinting! Crude version, but completely effective if you catch your subjects early enough. Poor kids. It explained a lot.

Then they felt cold night air on their faces and their breath crystallized before them. They left the Survivors’ warren by a different door than that by which they had entered.

The mockup landing field was a different sight in the night than it had been during the day; it was now a scene of barbaric ceremony. The stars and Dellalt’s two moons brightened the sky; glow-rods and streaming torches lit the entire area, reflected by the