THAT SOME FORM OF RITUAL was in progress was immediately apparent. From hillside, rock, cranny and hovel had come the Titanians; there were more of them than Chip would have believed could subsist in this hostile environment. A solid phalanx of them walled the avenue up which they were led. As they walked, the Titanians chanted a slow and ominous threnody. There was a dirgelike quality to the chant; despite the surface courage with which Chip bolstered himself he felt the chill of nervous apprehension upon him. Palmer must have felt the same way. He edged closer to Chip, spoke from the corner of his mouth in a tone that belied the forced gaiety of his words.
“Swell end to our trip, pal. Piece de resistance for a gang of green choristers!”
Salvation overheard him. “We have not yet come to
