Aton ran.

The main tube went on and on, intersecting numerous cloisters. Some seemed to be empty; others broadcast strange noises, grunts, scratchings. Aton passed them quickly.

Thirst drove him on. The cruel wind chafed at his back, wringing moisture from him. He had kept his shoes, but now he removed them and let his sweat-sodden feet breathe. And pushed on.

At last the sound of voices drew him into a larger cavern. The wind eased slightly, filling more spacious quarters, and the noise diminished. Aton’s numbed senses came back to life. There were several people here, working and chatting idly. In the center of the hall was a large metal device on wheels with a spoked axle rising from the top. Two men were pushing at the spokes and slowly rotating the top as though it were the wheel of a grinder. Nearby two other people squatted against the wall, carving small objects with slender blades. Beyond them a single man flipped pebbles into baskets. All were naked.

Nearest to him was a ponderously genial woman who spotted the visitor immediately. “New man, eh?” she said, using the same greeting he had met before. More trouble?

“Aton Five.”

“You came to the right place,” she said. “Everybody comes to Ma Skinny.”

She laughed at Aton’s blank look. “Naw—it’s ’cause I handle the skins. You’ll be wanting one, ’fore you shrivel. Here.” She went to the central machine. The men stopped their grinding to allow her to remove a bag hanging on a spout in the side.

She brought it to him. “This here’s your skin. You don’t never want to leave it behind.”

Aton took it, uncomprehending. It was made of some sturdy fabric, weighed about twenty pounds, and had straps obviously designed as a body harness. Now he saw that every person in sight wore a similar bag—the only article of clothing. But what was the purpose?