_In the webbed hands of the stolid, green-faced ones rests the Screece gem. Some say it's a fabulous diamond; some an emerald; some a ruby ... but Caine guessed it was death itself._ _High above the wet plains and muggy jungles, above the slick rocks and shiny leaves, rests a temple. Like most shrines of ancient order its narrowing spires point to the sky. Men, Venusian men, walk quietly through the restricted labyrinth of this temple, green fingers webbed beneath the long sleeves of their gray capes; green faces expressionless beneath the sanctity of their gray hoods. There is movement, and these caped men circle a silver orb that lies in dead center of the golden walls. They pace, each fl…
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