he world won't convince him
he's wrong. This time we'll have to use shock treatment. Burn over those
memories, fade them out. It's the only possible course."

There was a pause and then a sigh. "I suppose you're right."

Dane didn't wait to hear more. He drew back, while his mind fought to
accept the hideous reality. Shock treatment! The works, if what he knew
of psychiatry was correct. Enough of it to erase his memories--a part of
himself. It wasn't therapy Buehl was considering; it couldn't be.

It was the answer of an alien that had a human in its hands--one who
knew too much!

He might have guessed. What better place for an alien than in the guise
of a psychiatrist? Where else was there the chance for all the refined,
modern torture needed to burn out a man's mind? Dane had spent ten years
in fear of being discovered by them--and now Buehl had him.

Sylvia? He couldn't be sure. Probably she was human. It wouldn't make
any difference. There was nothing he could do through her. Either she
was part of the game or she really thought him mad.

Dane tried the window again, but it was hopeless. There would be no
escape this time. Buehl couldn't risk it. The shock treatment--or
whatever Buehl would use under the name of shock treatment--would begin
at once. It would be easy to slip, to use an overdose of something, to
make sure Dane was killed. Or there were ways of making sure it didn't
matter. They could leave him alive, but take his mind away.

In alien hands, human psychiatry could do worse than all the medieval
torture chambers!

* * * * *

The sickness grew in his stomach as he considered the worst that could
happen. Death he could accept, if he had to. He could even face the
chance of torture by itself, as he had accepted the danger while trying
to have his facts published. But to have his mind taken from him, a step
at a time--to watch his personality, his ego, rotted away under him--and
to know that he would wind up as a drooling idiot....

He made his decision, almost as quickly as he had come to realize what
Buehl must be.

There was a razor in the medicine chest. It was a safety razor, of
course, but the blade was sharp and it would be big enough. There was no
time for careful planning. One of the guards might come in at any moment
if they thought he was taking too long.

Some fear came back as he leaned over the wash basin, staring at his
throat, fingering the sudden