tic memory went to work,
conjuring an image of a large-scale map he had once studied. Closing
his eyes he laid off the exact distance, latitude and longitude,
individual islands.

Wait, there was one a little further west, a speck on the map, not
properly belonging to the group. And--he riffled through all the facts
he had ever learned pertaining to Bancroft. Wait now, Bertrand Meade,
who seemed to be the kingpin of the whole movement--yes, Meade owned
that tiny island.

_So that's where we're going!_ He sank back, letting weariness overrun
him. It would be awhile yet before they arrived.

Dalgetty sighed and looked out at the stars. Why had men arranged such
clumsy constellations when the total pattern of the sky was a big and
lovely harmony? He knew his personal danger would be enormous once he
was on the ground. Torture, mutilation, even death.

Dalgetty closed his eyes again. Almost at once he was asleep.

IV

They landed on a small field while it was still dark. Hustled out into
a glare of lights Dalgetty did not have much chance to study his
surroundings. There were men standing on guard with magnum rifles,
tough-looking professional goons in loose gray uniforms. Dalgetty
followed obediently across the concrete, along a walk and through a
garden to the looming curved bulk of a house.

He paused just a second as the door opened for them and stood looking
out into darkness. The sea rolled and hissed there on a wide beach. He
caught the clean salt smell of it and filled his lungs. It might be
the last time he ever breathed such air.

"Get along with you." An arm jerked him into motion again.

Down a bare coldly-lit hallway, down an escalator, into the guts of
the island. Another door, a room beyond it, an ungentle shove. The
door clashed to behind him.

Dalgetty looked around. The cell was small, bleakly furnished with
bunk, toilet and washstand, had a ventilator grille in one wall.
Nothing else. He tried listening with maximum sensitivity but there
were only remote confused murmurs.

_Dad!_ he thought. _You're here somewhere too._

He flopped on the bunk and spent a moment analyzing the aesthetics of
the layout. It had a certain pleasing severity, the unconscious
balance of complete functionalism. Soon Dalgetty went back to sleep.

A guard with a breakfast tray woke him. Dalgetty tried to read the
man's thoughts but there weren't any to speak of. He ate ravenously
under a gun muzzle, gave the tray