To his amazement, some of the beings spoke English. He could catch fragments of words, of phrases. Mixed with his own language were terms of the jewel-speech of Klogor. And there were other tongues, too, languages that were like the cacklings of monkeys or the shrill treble of singing birds. They were mingled together, as through the ages of common living had created a new tongue that was all of none, yet something of each.
Thor whispered to Slag, "They are after women."
"So are we. Karola."
"Yes. I wonder now—"
He stood out from the shadows and called, "I am an American."
A man in tweed suit that hung in tatters from bulky shoulders whirled and stared. His hair was pale blond, and his eyes were icy blue. Thor didn't need his, "Jove, you are!" to tell he was from England.
"Thor Masterson," he said, putting out a hand.
The Englishman chuckled, "Peter Gordon. I'm a gentleman farmer—or was, you know—from Devon. When did you get into this place?"
"A few weeks ago. How long've you been here?"
"Seven years, near as I can make it. How—how are things back—back there?"