er. We have
thousands of them on every planet. All but one could be destroyed, and
that one transmitter would still be enough to control the planet. You
begin to see, I think, that any kind of resistance is foolish. In time
you can be made to do as I ask. Unfortunately, we have no time to
spare.

"Perhaps you're thinking that outsiders--tourists, let's say--could
come here and overthrow us. All rational beings in the galaxy are
subject to the same physical laws. They still must hear and if they do
they're powerless.

"Besides, our secret is remarkably well-kept. The tourists and
merchants come to our planet in droves. They notice nothing--because
of the amusing idiosyncrasy of Vininese customs men, who are required
to stamp the hand of each visitor with an identification mark. The
coloring material is atomically constituted to act as a temporary disk
while the tourist is among us. He notices nothing amiss. He sees what
we want him to see--he goes home favorably impressed--and by that time
the mark has worn away. You get the general picture, Dirrul? Nothing
can ever defeat us."

"Nothing but yourselves."

"Romantic nonsense! Let me show you what I can do, Dirrul, even when
you wear a disk. I think you'll bargain then." The Chief turned a
little to face the panel behind his desk, feeling over the dials while
he kept Dirrul framed in his gunsight.

"The young man you went to this morning for help is a sadist. The
reception was his idea--so was your bath. He likes to have our
traitors--and you are a traitor, of course, to your own people--he
likes to have them discover the truth before we take their disks away.
It's an exquisite torture but in your case annoying, since it puts you
in a position to bargain. Now it occurs to me that your host should be
disciplined for his bungling."

The Chief pointed to the surface of his desk. "Watch the screen,
Dirrul." An opaque rectangle glowed with light, slowly came into
focus, and revealed a large mirrored lounge, where a number of
official Vininese stood talking and drinking. The Chief twisted a
dial, pulled a lever and one of the Vininese collapsed, writhing on
the glassy floor in violent agony.

The screen went blank.

"I have not only decontrolled your friend's disk," the Chief explained
blandly, "but I have doubled his receptability to sound. I can
continue the treatment until he goes mad--or I can snap it off and let
it serve as a warning.

"From this panel here I