oms which might--for all he could tell--have been a suite in a luxury
hotel or a lunatic asylum. The walls were translucent, the furniture
oddly colored, and so carefully padded that even a homicidal or suicidal
person could not have hurt himself or anyone else on it or with it.

Food reached him often enough so that he never got hungry, but not often
enough to keep him from being bored between meals, or from brooding. Two
enormous Lhari came in to look at him every hour or so, but either they
were deaf and dumb, did not understand his dialect of Lhari, or were
under orders not to speak to him. It was the most frustrating time of
his entire voyage.

One day it ended. A Lhari and a Mentorian came for him and took him down
elevators and up stairs, and into a quiet, neutral room where four Lhari
were gathered. They sat him in a comfortable chair, and the Mentorian
interpreter said gently, with apology:

"Bart Steele, I have been asked to say to you that you will not be
physically harmed in any way. This will be much simpler, and will have
much less injurious effect on your mind if you cooperate with us. At the
same time, I have been asked to remind you that resistance is absolutely
useless, and if you attempt it, you will only be treated with force
rather than with courtesy."

Bart sat facing them, shaking with humiliation. The thought of
resistance flashed through his mind. Maybe he should make them fight for
what they got! At least they'd see that all humans weren't like the
Mentorians, to sit quietly and let themselves be brainwashed without a
word of protest.

He started to spring up, and the hands of his guards tightened, swift
and strong, even before his muscles had fully tightened. Bart's head
dropped. Cold common sense doused over his brave thoughts. He was
uncountable millions of light-years from his own people. He was
absolutely alone. Bravery would mean nothing; submission would mean
nothing. Would he be more of a man, somehow, if he let his mind be
wrecked?

"All right," he muttered, "I won't fight."

"You show your good sense," the Mentorian said quietly. "Give me your
left arm, please--or, if you are left-handed, your right. As you
prefer."

Deftly, almost painlessly, a needle slid into his arm. _Giving in._ A
dizzying welter of thoughts spun suddenly in his mind. Briscoe. Raynor
One and Raynor Three. The net between the stars. Ringg, Vorongil, Meta,
his father....

Consciousness slid away.

Yea