"We'll keep you around for a while, just in case something goes wrong. You may be of some bargaining value."

That was right, Jonathan thought. He should have thought of that himself. That was a very good idea.

"Help him up to his room," the steam said.

"No, that's all right," Jonathan's voice said. "Thank you, but that's all right. I can..." But he couldn't. He couldn't stand up. And that was amazingly funny.

No, it was not funny. It was really very serious. And dangerous.

But funny.

A helpful man named Darling-that's funny too-helped Jonathan to his feet. Leonard looked on benevolently.

"Don't dress him," the steam said thoughtfully. "Nudity has a great psychological deterrent. No one is brave when he is nude."

That was wise, really. How could you be a hero with your ass hanging out? Poor Leonard. He couldn't talk. But he had killed Vanessa! Don't forget that. And these other goons, they had held her onto the table. Jonathan would teach them.

"Leonard," he said soapily, tapping his knuckle against the tree-trunk chest, "you're dumb. You know that? You are as dumb as a bullet. You are, in fact, a dumdum."

"Come along, mate." Darling led him out of the steam room.

"It's cold out here, Darling. I need my attache case to keep me warm." Would they see through that?

"Just come along with me, mate. You're drunk with the dope." Darling's voice had an odd echo. Then Jonathan realized why. He had two mouths! Naturally, he echoed.

The stairs were very difficult to climb. It was the undulations, of course. The room they led him to was the one he had been in the other evening. With Maggie.

Mustn't mention her name!

Jonathan was guided to the bed, where he lay down slowly, very slowly, deeply.

"Wait a minute!"

Darling answered from everywhere. "What is it?"

"I don't seem to have my attache case. I need it... for a pillow."

"Look, mate. Give over, won't you? I've already been through it and took out the guns. Mr. Strange give 'em to me as a present."

Jonathan was deeply disappointed. "That's too bad. I wanted to shoot you all. You know what I mean?"

Darling laughed dryly. "That's hard lines for you, mate. I guess you struck out. Now you just rest there. I'll be back in a couple of hours to shoot you."

"Oh?"

"With more dope. It only lasts four or five hours."

"Oh, I'm sorry about that. But then, all things are mutable. Except change, of course. I mean... change can't be mutable because... well, it's like all generalizations being false... and angels on the point of a pin. You know what I mean?"

But Darling had left, locking the door behind him.

Jonathan lay nude, spread-eagle on his back, watching with awe and admiration the permutations of the ceiling rectangle into parallelograms and trapezoids. Amazing that he had never noticed that before.

He was cold. Sweating and cold. There were no blankets on the bed. Only one sheet. And the chintzy bastards had taken his clothes!

He pulled the corner of the sheet over his chest and gripped it hard as he felt his body rise, up past the images and ideas above him. He tried to focus on those images and ideas, but they vanished under concentration, like the dim stars that can only be seen in peripheral vision.

It seemed that he had to get out of there. Go to a museum with MacTaint. For some reason... for some reason.

It was true what Darling had said. He had well and truly struck out. Struck out. Struck out.

Later-four minutes? four hours?-he tried to get up. Nausea. The floor rippled when he stood on it, so he knelt and put his forehead on the rug, and that was better.

Yes! He had to go with MacTaint to get the films from within the Marini Horse. Of course! But it was cold. His skin was clammy to the touch.

The window.

Then the pattern on the rug caught his attention. Beautiful, brilliant, and in constant subtle motion. Beautiful.

Forget the rug! The window!

He crawled over to it, repeating the word "window" again and again so he wouldn't forget what he was doing. He pulled himself up and looked out.

Fog. Almost evening. He had been out for hours. They would be back soon to shoot him up again.

With both hands he lifted the latch and pushed the window open. He had to wrap his arms around the center post of the casement before he dared to put his head out and look down.

No way. Never. The room was on the top floor. Red tile eaves overhung the window, and below there was a deadfall of three stories to a flagstone terrace. The building was faced with flush-set stone. No cracks, no mortise, no ledges to the window casements.

No way. Even in his prime as a climber, he could not have descended that face without an abseil rope.

Abseil rope. He turned back into the room, almost fainting with the suddenness of the movement.

Nothing. Only the sheet. Too short. That was why they had taken away his bedding.

He was able to walk back to the bed. He reeled, and he had to catch himself on the bedpost, but he had not had to crawl. His mind was clearing. Another half hour, maybe. Then he would be able to move about. He would be able to think. But he didn't have a half hour. They would be back before that.

He lay flat on his back on the bed, shivering with the cold that seemed to come from within his bones. The euphoria had passed, and a dry nausea had replaced it. Now, try to think. How to get rid of the effect quickly when they came back and shot him up again? He had to think it out before they returned, and he again sank into the pleasant, deadly euphoria.

Yes. Burn the dope up! With exercise. As soon as they left next time, he would start exercising. Make the blood flow quickly. Precipitate the effects and burn them off. That might work! That might give him half an hour to move and think before they returned to give him the third dose.

Oh, but he would forget! Once the crap was in him, he would lie there and groove on the ceiling, forgetting to exercise. He would forget his plan.

He looked around the room desperately. There was a narrow mantelpiece over an ornate hearth that had been blocked up. That would do. He would have four or five clear minutes after they put the dope in him and before it got into his bloodstream. During that time, he would exercise furiously to force the onset of the effects. Then, before he started to trip out, he would climb up on the mantel, where he would do isometrics to keep the heart pumping, to get the crap through him and out. And if his mind wandered, if the dope started to float him away, he would fall from the mantel ledge. That would snap him out of it. And if he could, he would climb back and begin exercising again. Somehow he would force the effects to pass off more quickly. He would gain time before the third needle.

Now relax. Empty your head.

There was a sound down the hall. They were returning.

Relax. Make them think you're still out. He produced the image of a still pond on the backs of his eyelids. This time control mattered. He had to get under quickly.

Darling preceded Leonard into the room. He clicked on the lights, and they advanced on the bed with its still form stretched over a wrinkled puddle of sheet.

"Still out," Darling said, as he opened the black leather case. "Gor, what's this? Look at him! The sweat's fair pouring off him! He's cold! Here. Put your hand on his chest. Feel his heart thumping there. What do you think, Leonard? Maybe he's one of them low tolerance blokes. Another dose might do for him."

But Leonard took the syringe from Darling's hand and, snapping Jonathan over by his arm, drove the needle into the shoulder muscle and squirted home the contents, not caring if there was air in the ampul.

"He didn't even flinch," Darling said. "Took the fun out of it for you, didn't I? I told you he was out. If he dies before Mr. Strange wants, remember that I'm not taking the blame."