"Naturally not," agreed Disbro. "Your race is more like a bunch of freak reptiles."
"Not my race," demurred the chief Skygor. "Men. Slaves."
Disbro understood only part, and took exception to that. "I'm no slave of yours," he warned.
"No. Equal. We have long needed equal men, to kill off the wild girls."
"You see, Mr. Disbro?" chimed in Max from behind.
David Planter was embarrassed.
Inside the Nest, he sat on a crude chair opposite Mantha, the Mother. The overhead light burned dim, and damp-banishing fires in the ovens mingled red glows. Planter asked questions, but was distracted by the crossbow-girls, who watched him with round eyes, whispering and giggling. Mara, near by, scowled at the noise-makers.
"This Venus world has much that's unknown," Mantha said. "Here in the north can we dwell. Not many days off the steam is thick, the heat horrid, the jungle dreadful. None go there and return."
"Mother, if you are called that, enlighten me," begged Planter. "You say you come from Earth."