Right now it was time to return to my crawl-space. Ommodurad might come back and talk some more, tip me off to a vulnerable spot in the armor of his fortress. I went to the door, flicked off the light, turned the handle ... and went rigid. * * * * * Ommodurad was back. He pulled off the purple cloak, tossed it aside, strode to a wall bar. I clung to the crack of the door, not daring to move even to close it. "But my lord," the voice of the red-head said, "I trow he remembers--" "Not so," Ommodurad's voice rumbled. "On the morrow I strip his mind to the bare clean jelly...." "Let me, dread lord. With my steel I'll have the truth o' him." "Such a one as he your steel has never known!" the bass voice snarled. "Great Owner, I crave but one hour ... tomorrow, in the Ceremonial Chamber. I shall environ him with the emblems of the past--" "Enough!" Ommodurad's fist slammed against the bar, made glasses jump. "On such starveling lackwits as you a mighty empire hangs. It is a crime before the Gods and on his head I lay it." The Owner tossed off a glass. "I grant thy boon. Now begone, babbler of folly." The red-head ducked, grinning, disappeared. The big man threw off his clothes then. He clambered up on the wide couch, touched a switch somewhere, and the room was dark. Within five minutes I heard the heavy breathing of deep sleep. I had found out one thing anyway: tomorrow was Foster's last day. One way or another Ommodurad and the red-head between them would destroy him. That didn't leave much time. But since the project was already hopeless it didn't make much difference. I had a choice of moves now: I could tip-toe across to the register and try to wiggle through it without waking up the brontosaurus on the bed ... or I could try for the balcony door a foot from where he slept ... or I could stay put and wait him out. The last idea had the virtue of requiring no immediately daring adventures. I could just curl up on the floor, or, better still, on the padded couch.... * * * * * A weird idea was taking shape in my mind. I felt in my pocket, pulled out the two small cylinders that represented two men's memories of hundreds of years of living. One belonged to Foster, the one with the black and golden bands, but the other was the property of a stranger who had died three thousand years ago, out in space.... This cylinder, barely three inches long, held all the memories of a man who had been Foster's confidant when he was Qulqlan, a man who knew what had happened aboard the ship, what the purpose of the expedition had been, and what conditions they had left behind on Vallon. I needed that knowledge. The cylinder could tell me plenty, including, possibly, the reason for Ommodurad's interest in Foster.