Some operated a treadmill, others wound at keys or turned cranks. The machines were strange but not mysterious. He judged that they pumped, elevated, and modelled. Glanfil answered his questions:
"'Tis the Skygor method. We supply power by our labors. Springs, levers, such things, are worked."
"Springs and levers?" repeated Planter. "Is this a clockwork town? Why not fuel? Steam?"
Glanfil shook his head. "We men make small fires, but the Skygors not. Their nature is moist, they want such things not. As you say, clockwork is the use of this place."
"If you refuse to do this slave work, what then?"
Glanfil shrugged, and shuddered. "If the sin is not too great, you go to a level below this. Men drag upon a capstan, to wind the mightiest of springs for town works."
"Like rowing in a galley!" Planter summed up wrathfully. "But if the sin is pretty sinful?"
A Skygor overseer came close, saw that Planter had learned the simple machine, and called Glanfil to some other task. Planter worked until such time as a raucous voice bade another shift take over. Marshalled with twenty or more slaves, he was led away to a musty vault, one side of which was lined with cell-like sleeping quarters. Here was a brick oven—perhaps those in the Nest were designed from it—over which two sturdy women toiled at cookery. As the slaves entered, these women quickly passed out stone plates and metal spoons. Into these were poured generous portions of hot, appetizing stew.
"They feed you well, these Skygors," commented Planter to Glanfil as he finished his plateful.
"'Tis their fashion. They seek to make us happy."