round fidget on
two legs, yet a good man for any project requiring action.

Faintly, Rastignac detected the slumbering guard as if he were the
tendrils of some plant at the sea-bottom, floating in the green
twilight, at peace and unconscious.

And even more faintly he felt Lusine's presence, shielded by the walls
of the shaft. Hers was a pale and light hand, one whose fingers tapped
a barely heard code of impotent rage and voiceless screaming fear. Yet
beneath that anguish was a base of confidence and mockery at others.
She might be temporarily upset, but when the chance came for her to do
something she would seize it with every ability at her command.

Another radiation dipped into the general picture and out. A wild
glowworm had swooped over them and disturbed the smooth reflection
built up by the Skins.

This was the way the Skins worked. They penetrated into you and found
out what you were feeling and emoting, and then they broadcast it to
other closeby Skins, which then projected their hosts' psychosomatic
responses. The whole was then integrated so that each Skin-wearer
could detect the group-feeling and at the same time, though in a much
duller manner, the feeling of the individuals of the _gestalt_.

That wasn't the only function of the Skin. The parasite, created in
the bio-factories, had several other social and biological uses.

Rastignac almost fell into a reverie at that point. It was nothing
unusual. The effect of the Skins was a slowing-down one. The wearer
thought more slowly, acted more leisurely, and was much more
contented.

But now, by a deliberate wrenching of himself from the
feeling-pattern, Rastignac woke up. There were things to do, and
standing around and drinking in the lotus of the group-rapport was
not one of them.

He gestured at the prostrate form of the mucketeer. "You didn't hurt
him?"

The Ssassaror rumbled, "No. I scratched him with a little venom of the
dream-snake. He will sleep for an hour or so. Besides, I would not be
allowed to hurt him. You forget that all this is carefully staged by
the King's Official Jail-breaker."

"_Me'dt!_" swore Rastignac.

Alarmed, Archambaud said, "What's the matter, Jean-Jacques?"

"Can't we do anything on our own? Must the King meddle in everything?"

"You wouldn't want us to take a chance and have to shed _blood_, would
you?" breathed Archambaud.

"What are you carrying those swords for? As a decoration?" Rastignac
snarled.

"_S