"Jhongan!" cried Venard. "Jhongan, that leathery monstrosity. That animated sponge. That—he was one of those lousy guards? Why—"
Venard turned, and there was the Martian, his skin iridescent in the cold light. "Hello, you old space-eater," he said in that peculiar, slurred accent.
An entanglement of arms and tentacles to which Larson added his own scrawny arms. For a moment of joyous reunion it might have been the good old days when Jhongan and other Marties had been attending Terran Academy of Interplanetary Law. That had been a cultural policy, to exchange students in the various world academies.
"You were one of those Guards, and you got us out of that torture chamber?"
The Martie inclined his body sac in a nod. Few could converse with a Martie; it required a special skill. "I was planning it differently, as La Crue said. But it worked out just as well. La Crue has kept your consciousness submerged for three days. To build up strength. La Crue has also mentioned a plan. Not because I know you love flattery, I tell you that you and Larson are the only ones for this job." Jhongan leaned forward and added: "It is possible, Karl, almost overnight, to save the Solar System and return to a peaceful, progressive Federation."
Venard stared and Larson's little eyes became bright beads. Then Venard decided to take it easy, get the whole thing gradually. He was still in an unstable physical condition and too much of Jhongan's abruptness all at once might tip the scale back.
He rubbed his jaw. His eyes went again round the depressing reaches of the big Underground living quarters, or that particular part of it. Two women and a small ragged boy entered carrying crude cooking equipment. They smiled, and went through a small opening.
Larson mumbled, "I'd swear that girl was Glora Karstedt who just went through there." He hobbled across the shadowed cavern and disappeared after the woman, yelling "Hey! Hey, Glora. It's me, Kewpie Doll Larson. Remember—"