A Brand New World by Ray Cummings

"Well," said Graff, "I had not thought to have you with me, but you are welcome. A pleasure -- "

I got to my feet; I had been lying on the bare metal floor. We were well beyond Xenephrene's atmosphere now. And so insistent are the human mundane needs -- amid all my perturbed thoughts of the future, my worry over Zetta, my aching head with a miserable gash and lump on it -- my chief trouble at the moment was an almost intolerable hunger.

I swayed as I stood up; Graff put out his hand to steady me. "You're not hurt?"

"No. I'm hungry."

"That is good. Zetta said you would be. Well, you shall be fed. Come with me. " He stood off, regarding me. I must have been a disheveled enough figure; wide-flaring, corded gray riding trousers, tight over the knee; heavy rolled stockings; a white shirt, open at the throat, torn and with Braun blood upon it; and with my own blood matting my tousled hair.

"You are a strong-looking little fellow," Graff chuckled. "My men, worse luck to them, told me how you fought them. It is my idea -- now that you are here with me -- you would not run wild like that again. Is it so?"

"Yes," I agreed. Why not? Of what use for me to try to fight, penned up here? I added: "Besides, your men took my weapons."

He was leading me down a long metal passage with closed doors along it at intervals. "Yes. They look interesting -- the mechanical one particularly. I mus' get you to explain it to me. Zetta says you will be ver' helpful to me. I think she is right. A clever little girl, Zetta."

His words made my blood run cold! But I kept silent. We entered a wide room, set amidship of the vehicle; through its windows I could see the black firmament on both sides -- the great, star-filled void of Space.

Zetta was here, perched on a bench before a high table littered with parchment sheets. She flashed me a smile and a warning glance. Food was on the table near her.

"Your breakfast, Peter," she said calmly. "Sit here."

I ate. Strange meal! Strange food of Xenephrene, but stranger still we three as we sat there. Graff sat pleasantly talking. He seemed in a high good humor; wholly frank and sincere. But I wondered; sometimes I fancied he was gently ironical.

"There were two or three other earthmen besides yourself who came into my hands, Peter. All of them -- unfortunately -- died. You -- I think -- may not die. Do you know why? Firs', because Zetta has ask' me to let you live -- and I would do anything to please her. That is -- almos' anything. Second, because she has promise' me you will help with my campaign. Will you?"

At his brusque question, I hesitated; Zetta's warning glance decided me.

"Yes," I said.

"I mean, really help. I will be able to guess at once you try to fool me. Do not try it, frien' Peter!"

I began: "I don't see how I can help you -- "

"He'll help you," Zetta put in.

"Information about your worl'," Graff explained. "There are many things you know, which I do not. Zetta and I have been talking over my plans -- I will be the greatest man on your earth, Peter -- "

It decided me. A vain glory was his weakness. He wanted to impress Zetta; he seemed even to take pleasure in impressing me. Zetta was playing upon it. We would give him information, authentic enough, which would help him undoubtedly. But we would learn his plans, too. Work with him, as he wished; and once on earth --