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."
Those nictitating lids nicked up. "Then ... he's of no use to us."