sten carbide. If
the fibers are only a thousandth or two thousandths of an inch in
diameter--the thickness of a human hair or less--then the cable from
which they are made has tremendous strength and flexibility.

"Do you want the details of the process now?" His teeth were showing
in his wolfish grin.

Fergus swallowed. "Yes, of course. But ... but why do you--"

"Why do I give it to you? Because it will kill you. You have seen what
the stuff will do. A strand a thousandth of an inch thick, encased in
silon for lubrication purposes, got me out of that filthy hole you
call a prison. You've heard about that?"

Fergus blinked. "You cut yourself out of there with the cable you're
talking about?"

"Not with the cable. With a thin fiber. With one of the hairlike
fibers that makes up the cable. Did you ever cut cheese with a wire?
In effect, that wire is a knife--a knife that consists only of an
edge.

"Or, another experiment you may have heard of. Take a block of ice.
Connect a couple of ten-pound weights together with a few feet of
piano wire and loop it across the ice block to that the weights hang
free on either side, with the wire over the top of the block. The wire
will cut right through the ice in a short time. The trouble is that
the ice block remains whole--because the ice melts under the pressure
of the wire and then flows around it and freezes again on the other
side. But if you lubricate the wire with ordinary glycerine, it
prevents the re-freezing and the ice block will be cut in two."

Tarnhorst nodded. "I remember. In school. They--" He let his voice
trail off.

* * * * *

"Yeah. Exactly. It's a common experiment in basic science. Borazon
fiber works the same way. Because it is so fine and has such
tremendous tensile strength, it is possible to apply a pressure of
hundreds of millions of pounds per square inch over a very small area.
Under pressures like that, steel cuts easily. With silon covering to
lubricate the cut, there's nothing to it. As you have heard from the
guards in your little hell-hole.

"Hell-hole?" Tarnhorst's eyes narrowed and he flicked a quick glance
at Fergus. Morgan realized that Tarnhorst had known nothing of the
extent of Fergus' machinations.

"That lovely little political prison up in Fort Tryon Park that the
World Welfare State, with its usual solicitousness for the common man,
keeps for its favorite guests," Morgan said. His wolfish smile