t? Institute men had little connection with the
Federal detectives, who, since the abolition of a discredited
Security, had resumed a broad function. They might easily have become
dubious about Bertrand Meade on their own, have planted operatives
with him. They had women among them too and a woman was always less
conspicuous than a man.

He felt a chill. The last thing he wanted was a Federal agent here.

The door opened again. A quartet of guards brought in Michael Tighe.
The Briton halted, staring before him. "_Simon!_" It was a harsh
sound, full of pain.

"Have they hurt you, Dad?" asked Dalgetty very gently.

"No, no--not till now." The gray head shook. "But you...."

"Take it easy, Dad," said Dalgetty.

The guards hustled Tighe over to a front-row bench and sat him down.
Old man and young locked eyes across the bare space.

Tighe spoke to him in the hidden way. _What are you going to do? I
can't sit and let them--_

Dalgetty could not reply unheard but he shook his head. "I'll be
okay," he answered aloud.

_Do you think you can make a break? I'll try to help you._

"No," said Dalgetty. "Whatever happens you lie low. That's an order."

He blocked off sensitivity as Bancroft snapped, "Enough. One of you is
going to yield. If Dr. Tighe won't, then we'll work on him and see if
Mr. Dalgetty can hold out."

He waved his hand as he took out a cigar. Two of the goons stepped up
to the chair. They had rubberite hoses in their hands.

The first blow thudded against Dalgetty's ribs. He didn't feel it--he
had thrown up a nerve bloc--but it rattled his teeth together. And
while he was insensitive he'd be unable to listen in on....

Another thud, and another. Dalgetty clenched his fists. What to do,
what to do? He looked over to the desk. Bancroft was smoking and
watching as dispassionately as if it were some mildly interesting
experiment. Casimir had turned her back.

"Something funny here, chief." One of the goons straightened. "I don't
think he's feeling nothing."

"Doped?" Bancroft frowned. "No, that's hardly possible." He rubbed his
chin, regarding Dalgetty with wondering eyes. Casimir wheeled around
to stare. Sweat filmed Michael Tighe's face, glistening in the chill
white light.

"He can still be hurt," said the guard.

Bancroft winced. "I don't like outright mutilation," he said. "But
still--I've warned you, Dalgetty."

"_Get out, Simon_," whispered Tighe. "_Get out of here._"

Dalgetty's red he