They might be fairly paid for their ship and whatever other advancements
they might develop, but they would never be permitted to use them.

With sudden savage eagerness Hyrst said, "But first of all I must know
who killed MacDonald. Shearing explained about the latent impressions.
I'm ready."

She stood up, regarding him with grave eyes. "There's no guarantee it
will work. Sometimes it does. Sometimes not."

Hyrst thought about the tired, gray-haired man who had stood at the foot
of his bed. "It'll work. It's got to."

He added, "If it doesn't, I'll tear the truth out of Bellaver with my
hands."

"It may come to that," she said grimly. "But we'll hope. Lie quiet. I'll
make the arrangements."

An hour later Hyrst lay on the padded table in the middle of the
sick-bay. The ship spun and whirled and leaped in a sort of insane
dance, and Hyrst was strapped to the table to prevent his being thrown
off. He had known that the ship was maneuvering in the thickest swarm
area of the Belt with four pilots mind-linked and flying esper, trying
to out-dare Bellaver. Two others were keeping Vernon blanked, and they
hoped that either Bellaver himself or his radar-deflector system would
give up. Hyrst had known this, but now he was no longer interested. He
was barely conscious of the lurching of the ship. They had given him
some sort of a drug, and he lay relaxed and pliant in a pleasant
suspension of all worries, looking vaguely up at the faces that were
bent over him. Finally he closed his eyes, and even they were gone.

* * * * *

He was crossing the plain of methane snow with MacDonald, under the
glowing Rings. At first it was all a little blurred, but gradually the
memory cleared until he was aware of each tiny detail far more clearly
than he had been at the time--the texture of the material from which
MacDonald's suit was made, the infinitesimal shadow underscoring every
roughness of the snow, the exact sensation of walking in his leaded
boots, the whisper and whistle of his oxygen system. He quarreled again
with MacDonald, not missing a word. He climbed with him into the tower
of Number Three hoist and examined the signal lights, and sat down on
the bench, smiling, to wait.

He sweated inside his suit. He would take a shower when he got back to
quarters. He wished for a smoke. MacDonald's steady grumbling and
cursing filled his helmet. He listened, enjoying it. Hope you bang
yourself wit