The pilot was actually a Neptunian. But a beautifully made synthetic
skin served him as an undetectable protection against both heat and
gravity ... made him, to all appearances, an Inner-Worldian. Timmy was
amazed. These Neptunians were _surgeons_ ... and thermal engineers.
"This way," motioned the Neptunian, and drew in a vast breath of
Neptune's methane atmosphere. His chest swelled until its minute scales
seemed on the verge of separating. Man-like in height and size, his
adaptation to a terrible gravity had made him a creature of steel-hard
sinew and muscle. Thurner, or whatever his proper name might be, was
almost as solid and several inches taller. No wonder he could consume
Callistonian whisky by the quart and still navigate a ship successfully.
They walked across the plain, dropped downward into a slit-like canyon.
Ahead of them lay a fortress whose only decoration was the simple
symbol of the Tsom clan. Its walls bristled with blast guns, but closer
examination showed Timmy that they were all of an obsolete pattern.
Methane had clogged their rifling and made them utterly useless.
"These aren't used," said their guide. "Just there to frighten away
lower forms of life. Watch!" He flicked a switch, and the wall's outer
surface raised to reveal a vast network of grids. "Heat grids," he
explained. "Perfect defense against the other clans."
"But we don't need defence," added Thurner. "Neptune is a united planet
now."
The gates swung wide, and Timmy, with an empty feeling, walked in.
Johnny Damokles followed. His antiquarian interests still shielding him
from the horror of their situation.
The council chamber, holy-of-holies, audience room, or whatever the
Neptunians called it, was perhaps the most impressive place either
Timmy Gordon or Johnny Damokles had ever entered.
Black rock lined the walls and seemed one with the primeval essence of
absolute cold. Atmosphere, at 17 G's, pressed hard against them, barely
repelled by their space suits. The Neptunian turned. "If this," he
said, "were a nightmare, I'd order you to kneel and worship at the feet
of the Clan Tsom's god."
"Why not?" Timmy's belligerent Irish chin thrust out.
"Because, my dear guests, we have advanced considerably beyond such
idle superstitions. Neptune, and the Tsoms, are the perfection of true
civilization. We _know_ there are no gods. We are neither concerned
with ritual nor rank. Here, all are equal, under my _leadership_."
"Interesting," commented Timmy. "I seem to have heard it before."
Johnny Damokles nodded. "She are wonderfuls idea ... but gods is dam'
important fellers. So is old time's history."
The Neptunian looked at him. "What," he asked Thurner, "is this? Some
primitive?"
"A Greek," the pilot explained. "Sticks to the old beliefs and the old
ways of Terra."