An hour had passed since Arvardan had first waded thickly out of unconsciousness to find himself slabbed like a side of beef awaiting the cleaver. And nothing had happened. Nothing but this feverish, inconclusive talk that unbearably passed the unbearable time.

None of it lacked purpose. He knew that much. To lie prone, helpless, without even the dignity of a guard, without even that much concession to a conceivable danger, was to become conscious of overwhelming weakness. A stubborn spirit could not survive it, and when the inquisitor did arrive there would be little defiance, or none, for him to be presented with.

Arvardan needed a break in the silence. He said, "I suppose this place is Spy-waved. We should have talked less."

"It isn't," came Schwartz's voice flatly. "There's nobody listening."

The archaeologist was ready with an automatic "How do you know?" but never said it.

For a power like that to exist! And not for him, but for a man of the past who called himself an Earthman and wanted to die!

Within optical sweep was only a patch of ceiling. Turning, he could see Shekt's angular profile; the other way, a blank wall. If he lifted his head he could make out, for a moment, Pola's pale, worn expression.

Occasionally there was the burning thought that he was a man of the Empire-of the Empire, by the Stars; a Galactic citizen-and that there was a particularly vile injustice in his imprisonment, a particularly deep impurity in the fact that he had allowed Earthmen to do this to him.

And that faded too.

They might have put him next to Pola…No, it was better this way. He was not an inspiring sight.

"Bel?" The word trembled into sound and was strangely sweet to Arvardan, coming as it did in this vortex of coming death.

"Yes, Pola?"

"Do you think they'll be much longer?"

"Maybe not, darling…It's too bad. We wasted two months, didn't we?"

"My fault," she whispered. "My fault. We might have had these last few minutes, though. It's so-unnecessary."

Arvardan could not answer. His mind whirred in circles of thought, lost on a greased wheel. Was it his imagination, or did he feel the hard plastic on which he was so stiffly laid? How long would the paralysis last?

Schwartz must be made to help. He tried guarding his thoughts-knew it to be ineffective.

He said, "Schwartz-"

Schwartz lay there as helpless, and with an added, uncalculated refinement to his suffering. He was four minds in one.

By himself he might have maintained his own shrinking eagerness for the infinite peace and quiet of death, fought down the last remnants of that love of life which even as recently as two days previously-three?-had sent him reeling away from the farm. But how could he? With the poor, weak horror of death that hung like a pall over Shekt; with the strong chagrin and rebellion of Arvardan's hard, vital mind; with the deep and pathetic disappointment of the young girl.

He should have closed his own mind. What did he need to know of the sufferings of others? He had his own life to live, his own death to die.

But they battered at him, softly, incessantly-probing and sifting through the crannies.

And Arvardan said, "Schwartz," then, and Schwartz knew that they wanted him to save them. Why should he? Why should he?

"Schwartz," repeated Arvardan insinuatingly, "you can live a hero. You have nothing to die for here-not for those men out there."

But Schwartz was gathering the memories of his own youth, clutching them desperately to his wavering mind. It was a queer amalgamation of past and present that finally brought forth his indignation.

But he spoke calmly, restrainedly. "Yes, I can live a hero-and a traitor. They want to kill me, those men out there. You call them men, but that was with your tongue; your mind called them something I didn't get, but it was vile. And not because they were vile, but because they were Earthmen."

"That's a lie," hotly.

"That is not a lie," as hotly, "and everyone here knows that. They want to kill me, yes-but that is because they think I'm one of your kind of people, who can condemn an entire planet at a stroke and drench it with your contempt, choke it slowly with your insufferable superiority. Well, protect yourself against these worms and vermin who are somehow managing to threaten their Godlike overlords. Don't ask for the help of one of them."

"You talk like a Zealot," said Arvardan with amazement. "Why? Have you suffered? You were a member of a large and independent planet, you say. You were an Earthman when Earth was the sole repository of life. You're one of us, man; one of the rulers. Why associate yourself with a desperate remnant? This is not the planet you remember. My planet is more like the old Earth than is this diseased world."

Schwartz laughed. "I'm one of the rulers, you say? Well, we won't go into that. It isn't worth explaining. Let's take you instead. You're a fine sample of the product sent us by the Galaxy. You are tolerant and wonderfully bighearted, and admire yourself because you treat Dr. Shekt as an equal. But underneath-yet not so far underneath that I can't see it plainly in your mind-you are uncomfortable with him. You don't like the way he talks or the way he looks. In fact, you don't like him, even though he is offering to betray Earth…Yes, and you kissed a girl of Earth recently and look back upon it as a weakness. You're ashamed of it-"

"By the Stars, I'm not…Pola," desperately, "don't believe him. Don't listen to him."

Pola spoke quietly. "Don't deny it, or make yourself unhappy about it, Bel. He's looking below the surface to the residue of your childhood. He would see the same if he looked into mine. He would see things similar if he could look into his own in as ungentlemanly a fashion as he probes ours."

Schwartz felt himself reddening.

Pola's voice did not rise in pitch or intensity as she addressed him directly. "Schwartz, if you can sense minds, investigate mine. Tell me if I intend treason. Look at my father. See if it is not true that he could have avoided the Sixty easily enough if he had co-operated with the madmen who will ruin the Galaxy. What has he gained by his treason?…And look again, see if any of us wish to harm Earth or Earthmen.

"You say you have caught a glimpse of Balkis's mind. I don't know what chance you have had to poke through its dregs. But when he's back, when it's too late, sift it, strain his thoughts. Find out that he's a madman-Then, die!"

Schwartz was silent.

Arvardan broke in hurriedly, "All right. Schwartz, tackle my mind now. Go as deep as you want. I was born on Baronn in the Sirius Sector. I lived my life in an atmosphere of anti-Terrestrialism in the formative years, so I can't help what flaws and follies lie at the roots of my subconscious. But look on the surface and tell me if, in my adult years, I have not fought bigotry in myself. Not in others; that would be easy. But in myself, and as hard as I could.

"Schwartz, you don't know our history! You don't know of the thousands and tens of thousands of years in which Man spread through the Galaxy-of the wars and misery. You don't know of the first centuries of the Empire, when still there was merely a confusion of alternating despotism and chaos. It is only in the last two hundred 'years, now, that our Galactic government has become a representative one. Under it the various worlds are allowed their cultural autonomy-have been allowed to govern themselves-have been allowed voices in the common rule of all.

"At no time in history has Humanity been as free from war and poverty as now; at no time has Galactic economy been so wisely adjusted; at no time have prospects for the future been as bright. Would you destroy it and begin all over? And with what? A despotic theocracy with only the unhealthy elements of suspicion and hatred in it.