ss. Torture was obsolete, for hypnosis allowed a victim to die
before he could reveal secret information.

He came every week to get free supplies and have conferences with the
Intelligence men. The Traitor would walk the freshly-laid sidewalk
boldly, his head up, his eyes flashing about to take in every new
building.

The soldiers hazed him, spitting at him, bumping into him, glaring and
swearing at him; but he always reciprocated with such a withering look
of contempt that they soon grew tired of the sport.

The worst day for the Traitor, alias Aron Myers, was when he went into
the Soldier's Club to quench his thirst of a hot day. Since it was a
week-end and there was nowhere to go on what few week-end passes were
given, the Club was packed.

In the dimmed-light atmosphere, the black uniforms made the place seem
filled with vagrant and ominous shadows with white faces. The noise was
almost unbearable and Aron had a mind to leave.

He was confronted by a group of these shadows. They were all the same,
indistinguishable in their identical uniforms, crew-cuts and young,
arrogant faces.

"Hello Mr. Myers," one of them said. "Won't you join us in a drink?"

When he started to demur, they interrupted, "But we insist, Mr. Myers."
One took him by an arm and led him to a table.

"After all," they said as the drinks came up, "We owe you at least a
drink for giving us such a nice new base and everything, now don't we."
It was sarcasm, and hammy sarcasm at that, Aron thought.

He recognized the situation as another case of hazing, but this time by
a group of soldiers made even more obnoxious and bellicose by the liquor
in their guts.

"You don't owe me anything," Aron said, "I gave it to you for my own
reasons and not for money." Sure enough, they even came out with the
corny laughter.

He let them play out their little satire without protest. Their
grandiose courtesy towards him, the toasts drunk in his honor. That is,
until one of them, more drunk than the others, said, "Mr. Myers, I hope
you don't mind my telling you, but you are a--." The epithet was a new
slang word but its vileness stemmed from prehistoric days.

Aron replied with blazing eyes. "I can't insult you back and you know
it. I don't want to be killed that badly. All I can say is:

"Who are you to judge me? You are blind little men in a cage trying to
judge someone on the outside.

"Your hearts and minds have been forged in the crucible of duty an