In his tiny prison he could only guess the time, for no clock struck the hour and no star was visible in the overcast sky. The darkness would have been absolute save for the feeble glow of light coming from the area of the administration building. He had been given neither food nor water since leaving the survey boat, and by now his thirst had become a torment. Hopefully he peered through the wall slit on his right, trying to distinguish form and movement in the shadow. Before he could make out anything, he was startled by a low whisper at the edge of the slit. “Conan?” “Teacher!” he said hoarsely. “S-s-s-sh! Never use that name while you are here.” A bony hand came through the slit and gripped his own. “Just call me Patch, or even Patchy.” “Yes, sir. Lord, but it’s good to see you! Of all the places to find you—I wouldn’t have dreamed—” “I’ve been here nearly four years. And of course I’ve been expecting you—but more of that later. Our time is short.
