When Y'ang-Yeovil saw the short blond cadaver with leaden skin and death's-head smile enter the Star Chamber, he knew he was assured of defeat in this encounter. He was no match for the three men together. He arose at once.

«I'm getting an Admiralty order for Foyle,» he said. «As far as Intelligence is concerned, all negotiations are ended. From now on it's war.»

«Captain Yeovil is leaving,» Presteign called to the Jaunte-Watch officer who had guided Dagenham in. «Please see him out through the maze.»

Y'ang-Yeovil waited until the officer stepped alongside him and bowed. Then, as the man courteously motioned to the door, Y'ang-Yeovil looked directly at Presteign, smiled ironically, and disappeared with a faint Pop!

«Presteign!» Bunny exclaimed. «He jaunted. This room isn't blind to him. He…”

«Evidently,» Presteign said icily. «Inform the Master of the Household,» he instructed the amazed Watch officer. «The coordinates of the Star Chamber are no longer secret. They must be changed within twenty-four hours. And now, Mr. Dagenham.

«One minute,» Dagenham said. «There's that Admiralty order.»

Without apology or explanation he disappeared too. Presteign raised his eyebrows. «Another party to the Star Chamber secret,» he murmured. «But at least he had the tact to conceal his knowledge until the secret was out.»

Dagenham reappeared. «No point wasting time going through the motions of the maze,» he said. «I've given orders in Washington. They'll hold Yeovil up; two hours guaranteed, three hours probably, four hours possible.»

«How will they hold him up?» Bunny asked.

Dagenham gave him his deadly smile. «Standard FFCC Operation of Dagenham Couriers. Fun, fantasy, confusion, catastrophe. . . .We'll need all four hours. Damn! I've disrupted your dolls, Presteign.» The robots were suddenly capering in lunatic fashion as Dagenham's hard radiation penetrated their electronic systems. «No matter, I'll be on my way.»

«Foyle?» Presteign asked.

«Nothing yet.» Dagenham grinned his death's-head smile. «He's really unique. I've tried all the standard drugs and routines on him . . . Nothing. Outside, he's just an ordinary spaceman . . . if you forget the tattoo on his face. . . but inside he's got steel guts. Something's got hold of him and he won't give.»

«What's got hold of him?» Sheffield asked.

«I hope to find out.»

«How?»

«Don't ask; you'd be an accessory. Have you got a ship ready, Presteign?»

Presteign nodded.

«I'm not guaranteeing there'll be any 'Nomad' for us to find, but we'll have to get a jump on the navy if there is. Law ready, Sheffield?»

«Ready. I'm hoping we won't have to use it.»

«I'm hoping too; but again, I'm not guaranteeing. All right. Stand by for instructions. I'm on my way to crack Foyle.»

«Where have you got him?»

Dagenham shook his head. «This room isn't secure.» He disappeared.

He jaunted Cincinnati-New Orleans-Monterey to Mexico City, where he appeared in the Psychiatry Wing of the giant hospital of the Combined Terran Universities. Wing was hardly an adequate name for this section which occupied an entire city in the metropolis which was the hospital. Dagenham jaunted up to the 43rd floor of the Therapy Division and looked into the isolated tank where Foyle floated, unconscious. He glanced at the distinguished bearded gentlemen in attendance.

«Hello, Fritz.»

«Hello, Saul.»

«Hell of a thing, the Head of Psychiatry minding a patient for me.»

«I think we owe you favors, Saul.»

«You still brooding about Tycho Sands, Fritz? I'm not. Am I lousing your wing with radiation?»

«I've had everything shielded.»

«Ready for the dirty work?»

«I wish I knew what you were after.»

«Information.»

«And you have to turn my therapy department into an inquisition to get it?»

«That was the idea.»

«Why not use ordinary drugs?»

«Tried them already. No good. He's not an ordinary man.»

«You know this is illegal.»

«I know. Changed your mind? Want to back out? I can duplicate your equipment for a quarter of a million.»

«No, Saul. We'll always owe you favors.»

«Then let's go. Nightmare Theater first.»

They trundled the tank down a corridor and into a hundred feet square padded room. It was one of therapy's by-passed experiments. Nightmare Theater had been an early attempt to shock schizophrenics back into the objective world by rendering the phantasy world into which they were withdrawing uninhabitable. But the shattering and laceration of patients' emotions had proved to be too cruel and dubious a treatment.

For Dagenham's sake, the head of Psychiatry had dusted off the 3D visual projectors and reconnected all sensory projectors. They decanted Foyle from his tank, gave him a reviving shot and left him in the middle of the floor. They removed the tank, turned off the lights and entered the concealed control booth. There, they turned on the projectors.

Every child in the world imagines that its phantasy world is unique to itself. Psychiatry knows that the joys and terrors of private phantasies are a common heritage shared by all mankind. Fears, guilts, terrors, and shames could be interchanged, from one man to the next, and none would notice the difference. The therapy department at Combined Hospital had recorded thousands of emotional tapes and boiled them down to one all-inclusive allterrifying performance in Nightmare Theater.

Foyle awoke, panting and sweating, and never knew that he had awakened. He was in the clutch of the serpent-haired bloody-eyed Eumenides. He was pursued, entrapped, precipitated from heights, burned, flayed, bowstringed, vermin-covered, devoured. He screamed. He ran. The radar Hobble-Field in the Theater clogged his steps and turned them into the ghastly slow motion of dream-running. And through the cacophony of grinding, shrieking, moaning, pursuing that assailed his ears, muttered the thread of a persistent voice.

«Where is 'Nomad' where is 'Nomad' where is 'Nomad' where is 'Nomad' where is 'Nomad'?»

«'Vorga,' « Foyle croaked.» 'Vorga.»

He had been inoculated by his own fixation. His own nightmare had rendered him immune.

«Where is 'Nomad'? where have you left 'Nomad'? what happened to 'Nomad'? where is 'Nomad'?»

«'Vorga,'» Foyle shouted. «'Vorga.' 'Vorga.' 'Vorga.»

In the control booth, Dagenham swore. The head of psychiatry, monitoring the projectors, glanced at the clock. «One minute and forty-five seconds, Saul. He can't stand much more.»

«He's got to break. Give him the final effect.»

They buried Foyle alive, slowly, inexorably, hideously. He was carried down into black depths and enclosed in stinking slime that cut off light and air. He slowly suffocated while a distant voice boomed: «WHERE IS 'NOMAD'? WHERE HAVE YOU LEFT 'NOMAD'? YOU CAN ESCAPE IF YOU FIND 'NOMAD.' WHERE IS 'NOMAD'?»

But Foyle was back aboard «Nomad» in his lightless, airless coffin, floating comfortably between deck and roof. He curled into a tight fetal ball and prepared to sleep. He was content. He would escape. He would find «Vorga.»

«Impervious bastard!» Dagenham swore. «Has anyone ever resisted Nightmare Theater before, Fritz?»

«Not many. You're right. That's an uncommon man, Saul.»

«He's got to be ripped open. All right, to hell with any more of this. We'll try the Megal Mood next. Are the actors ready?»

«All ready.»

«Then let's go.»

There are six directions in which delusions of grandeur can run. The Megal (short for Megalomania) Mood was therapy's dramatic diagnosis technique for establishing and plotting the particular course of megalomania.

Foyle awoke in a luxurious four-poster bed. He was in a bedroom hung with brocade, papered in velvet. He glanced around curiously. Soft sunlight filtered through latticed windows. Across the room a valet was quietly laying out clothes.