nal act of
his utter destruction of the once proud Ofridian nation. Evalla in the
dream seemed happy and confident. Retoc awoke sweating although frigid
winds howled over the Nadian ice-fields. Her confidence sent unknown
fear through him.

* * * * *

"Really, it's quite simple," the superbly-muscled prisoner said in the
language which was not his own but which he could speak as well as a
native. "You see, it wasn't simple at all until I saw what was in the
package, but it's quite simple now. In the package was a picture of my
mother, the dead Queen Evalla. I am her son. I am of the royal blood.
When I saw the picture, it suddenly triggered my memory-responses, as
Portox had arranged. Then--"

"What about the old guy in the well?" the trooper asked
unimaginatively.

"I'm sorry. I can't answer your questions now. I have to return to my
home. The handful of wayfarers who alone are left of a once great
nation are waiting for vengeance. I will...."

His voice trailed on, earnestly, politely. The trooper looked at the
man from the state mental hospital, who shook his head slowly. They
left the powerful, polite prisoner in his cell and went through the
corridor to the prison office.

"Real weirdy, huh, doc?" the trooper said.

"A--uh--weirdy to you, but rather cut and dry to me, I'm afraid," Dr.
Slonamn said. "Delusions of grandeur and delusions of persecution.
Advanced paranoia, I'm afraid."

"It's funny, doc. When they took everything away from him he might
hurt himself with, he didn't mind at all. Only the bracelet. Three
strong men had to hold him when they took the bracelet."

"Bracelet?" Dr. Slonamn said.

"We got it in the office. I'll show you."

The bracelet turned out to be a small, mesh-metal strap as wide around
as a big man's upper arm. Attached to the strap was a disc of silvery
metal.

"You'd think it was worth a million bucks," the trooper said.

Dr. Slonamn nodded sagely. "Paranoid. It helps confirm the diagnosis.
You see, out of touch with the real world, a paranoid can attach great
value to utterly worthless objects. Well, I'll write out my report,
sergeant."

"Captain Caruthers said to thank you, sir."

"Not at all. Part of my job."

Meanwhile, back in his cell, the prisoner, big hands gripping the bars
so tight that his knuckles were white, was thinking: _I've got to make
them understand. Somehow I've got to make them understand before it's
too late._