Lucky laughed wildly. "Make me!" he said.

"Make you?"

"Make me speak. Make me dive the ship. Make me do anything."

"You think we cannot?"

"I know you cannot."

"Look about you, then, and see what we have already accomplished. Your fellow creature who is bound is in our hands. Your fellow creature who stood at your side is in our hands."

Lucky whirled. In all this time, through all this conversation, he had not heard Bigman's voice once. It was as though he had completely forgotten Bigman's existence. And now he saw the little Martian lying twisted and crumpled at his feet.

Lucky dropped to his knees, a vast and fearful dismay parching his throat. "You've killed him?"

"No, he lives. He is not even badly hurt. But, you see, you are alone now. You have none to help you now. They could not withstand us, and neither can you."

White-faced, Lucky said, "No. You will not make me do anything."

"One last chance. Make your choice. Do you choose to help us, so that life may end peacefully and quietly for you? Or will you refuse to help us, so that it must end in pain and sorrow, to be followed, perhaps, by life's end for all your people in the cities below the ocean? Which is it to be? Come, your answer!"

The words echoed and re-echoed within Lucky's mind as he prepared to stand, alone and unfriended, against the buffets of a mental power he did not know how to fight save by an unbending stubbornness of will.

How does one set up A barrier against mental attack? Lucky had the desire to resist, but there were no muscles he could flex, no guard he could throw up, no way he could return violence. He must merely remain as he was, resisting all those impulses that flooded his mind which he could not surely tell to be his own.

And how could he tell which were his own? What did he himself wish to do? What did he himself wish most to do?

Nothing entered his mind. It was blank. Surely there had to be something. He had not come up here without a plan.

Up here?

Then he had come up. Originally, he had been down.

Far down in the recesses of his mind, he thought, That's it.

He was in a ship. It had come up from the sea bottom. It was on the surface of the water now. Good. What next?

Why at the surface? Dimly he could remember it was safer underneath.

He bent his head with great difficulty, closed his eyes and opened them again. His thoughts were very thick.

He had to get word somewhere… somewhere… about something.

He had to get word.

Get word.

And he broke through! It was as though somewhere miles inside of himself he had put a straining shoulder to a door and it had burst open. There was a clear flash of purpose, and he remembered something he had forgotten.

Ship's radio and the space station, of course.

He said, huskily, "You haven't got me. Do you hear that? I remember, and I'll keep on remembering."

There was no answer.

He shouted aloud, incoherently. His mind was faintly occupied with the analogy of a man fighting an overdose of a sleeping drug. Keep the muscles active, he thought. Keep walking. Keep walking.

In his case, he had to keep his mind active, he had to keep the mental fibers working. Do something. Do something. Stop, and they'll get you.

He continued shouting, and sound became words, "I'll do-it. I'll do it." Do what? He could feel it slipping from him again.

Feverishly, he repeated to himself, "Radio to station… radio to station…" but the sounds were becoming meaningless.

He was moving now. His body turned clumsily as though his joints were wood and nailed in place, but it was turning. He faced the radio. He saw it clearly for a moment, then it wavered and became foggy. He bent his mind to the task, and it was clear again. He could see the transmitter, see the range-setting toggle and the frequency condensers. He could recall and understand its workings.

He took a dragging step toward it and a sensation as of red-hot spikes boring into his temples overwhelmed him.

He staggered and fell to his knees, then, in agony, rose again.

Through pain-hazed eyes, he could still make out the radio. First one of his legs moved, then another.

The radio seemed a hundred yards away, hazy, surrounded by a bloody mist. The pounding in Lucky's head increased with each step.

He fought to ignore the pain, to see only the radio, to think only of the radio. He forced his legs to move against a rubbery resistance that was entangling them and dragging him down.

Finally, he put out his arm, and when his fingers were still six inches away from the ultrawave, Lucky knew that his endurance was at an end. Try as he might, he could drive his exhausted body no closer. It was all over. It was ended.

The Hilda was a scene of paralysis. Evans lay unconscious on his cot; Bigman was crumpled on the floor; and though Lucky remained stubbornly upright, his trembling fingertips were the only sign of life in him.

The cold voice in Lucky's mind sounded once again in its even, inexorable monotone: "You are helpless, but you will not lose consciousness as did your companions. You will suffer this pain until you decide to submerge your ship, tell us what we wish to know, and end your life. We can wait patiently. There is no way you can resist us. There is no way you can fight us. No bribe! No threat!"

Lucky, through the endless torture, felt a striving within his sluggish, pain-soaked mind, the stirring of something new.

No bribe? No threat?

No bribe?

Even through the misty semiconsciousness, the spark in his mind caught fire.

He abandoned the radio, turned his thoughts away, and instantly the curtain of pain lifted a fraction. Lucky took a faltering step away from the radio, and it lifted a bit more. He turned away completely.

Lucky tried not to think. He tried to act automatically and without foreplanning. They were concentrating on preventing his reaching the radio. They must not realize the other danger they faced. The pitiless enemy must not deduce his intentions and try to stop him. He would have to act quickly. They must not stop him.

They must not!

He had reached the first-aid wall chest and flung open its door. He could not see clearly, and he lost precious seconds in fumbling.

The voice said, "What is your decision?" and the fierceness of pain began to clamp down upon the young councilman once more.

Lucky had it-a squat jar of bluish silicone. His fingers groped through what seemed deadening cotton for the little catch that would shut off the paramagnetic microfield that held the jar's lid closed and airtight.

He scarcely felt the little nudge as one fingernail caught the catch. He scarcely saw the lid move to one side and fall off. He scarcely heard it hit the floor with the sound of metastic against metal. Fuzzily, he could see that the jar was open, and hazily, he lifted bis arm toward the trash ejector.

The pain had returned in all its fury.

His left arm had lifted the hinged opening of the ejector; his right arm tremblingly raised the precious jar to the six-inch opening.

His arm moved for an eternity. He could no longer see. A red haze covered everything.

He felt his arm and the jar it held strike the wall. He pushed, but it would move no farther. The fingers on his left hand inched down from where they held the opening of the trash ejector, and touched the jar.

He daren't drop it now. If he did, he would never in his life find the strength to pick it up again.

He had it in both hands, and together both hands pulled at it. It inched upward, while Lucky hovered closer and closer to the edge of unconsciousness.