The Martians gathered around the two Earthmen; attached electrodes from
the alien machine to Tharp's head.
Three minutes later, Tharp still sat with the electrodes attached to
his skull. The Martians were impatient.
"What's the matter?" Tharp inquired angrily. "The game between the
Martians, it only took the loser a few seconds to pay the duchal!"
"That's right," Farrell agreed. "But look at the dial."
Tharp stared at the motionless instrument.
"Duchal is an expression of mental or physical agony," Farrell reminded
him. "Concentrate and feel sorry you lost."
He assumed a thoughtful expression. The indicator wavered slightly.
"Not so good. See, there are ten graduations on the dial. The needle
has to touch the tenth before you pay the amount of duchal you owe. So
far, the needle hasn't passed the first graduation. In other words, you
haven't paid a tenth of the duchal!"
Tharp drew his revolver.
The Martians did not like the sight of a gun in an Earthman's hand.
They had no way of knowing that it was meant for Farrell and not
themselves. A dozen aliens threw themselves on Tharp and quickly
disarmed him.
Ten Martians held an outraged Tharp motionless while an eleventh
removed alien handcuffs from his tunic and placed pairs around his
wrists and ankles.
Farrell recovered his money.
"Martians aren't thieves," he informed the angry man who struggled in
vain at the metal bindings. "And therefore, they like to see everyone
pay their debts. They'll keep you here until you pay the wager. You
see, by being behind the control board and pushing the buttons, you're
the one who has to pay the duchal although I told you what buttons to
push."
"A trick!" Tharp screamed.
Tharp's face reddened. "You won't get far," he threatened. "I'll pay
this duchal in a few minutes; they'll let me free and I'll--"
"You don't realize," Farrell interrupted, "Martians are sickly,
sensitive people and they're adept at projecting sensations of agony
from their brains. On the other hand, Earthmen are strong physically
and know nothing about projecting physical or mental pain--"
He paused to watch three Martians who removed gleaming, sharp knives
from their tunics.
They pressed the blades against Tharp's arms.
The knives cut through his coat, shirt and flesh. The cloth reddened
quickly.
"They want their duchal payment," Farrell informed him. "They'll get it
if they have to slice you to ribbons."
Tharp's wild eyes stared at the dial before him. The needle touched the
second graduation, then settled to the "0" position.
"You see," Farrell continued, "it's a matter of equivalent. Earthmen
are so strong, they have to really _suffer_ physically before they can
match a duchal payment that a Martian can create as easy as snapping
his fingers!"
Once more, the glittering knives bit into Tharp's flesh.
He screamed with pain.
"_Get help! Get help before they kill me!_"
Farrell went for help.
But, once beyond the thick door that suddenly suffocated Tharp's shrill
screams of pain, he didn't run for help.
He walked slowly.