And in a way, all that was good. At least, it relieved him of uncertainty; demonstrated once and for all that he'd been right when he refused to believe offspring could come from the mating of bull and woman. No, that was only fable; a Bronze Age fantasy. The fact, quite probably, was that Pasiphae had given birth to an imbecile who also happened by some strange quirk to be a physical giant. What better host for an alien telepath, a creature not adapted to Earth as a planet or to dry-land living? Then, to conceal the truth, hide alien and microcephalic skull alike beneath a great bull's head mask, and build a labyrinthine domicile where only its victims would ever meet it face to face. All of which was interesting as conjecture, but hardly of practical use to a man faced with an alien-guided, seven-foot giant as of this very moment. Such thoughts--! In spite of his plight, Burke couldn't help but smile wryly. With a strong effort of will, he forced the alien's probing tentacles of thought out of his brain; rose slowly, warily, holding the octopod's glittering eyes with his own. * * * * * He was on his feet now; and, once up, he became distinctly, unpleasantly aware of the room's heat ... the billows of smoke, the roaring of the flames that leaped along the roof-beams. It was time for him to leave. Definitely. For the fraction of a second, he let his eyes flicker towards the door. Like a flash, his giant foe lunged for him. Before he could duck or dodge, he was jammed back against the wall. Great hands shoved at his chest, pinning him. Desperately, Burke tried to strike back. His reach was too short. He couldn't land a blow. Now a vacuous smirk wreathed the microcephalic's loose-lipped face. The tiny eyes shone with delight. There was no change in the octopod's baleful glare. Now the giant pushed harder ... harder.... Burke felt his ribs begin to give. He swung his arms wildly, clutching in a frenzy for something--anything-- His hand touched an oil-jar. He clawed it to him. But the Minotaur merely shifted, blocking him so he couldn't strike a blow. Death was very close now. Burke knew it. Another moment, and his ribs would snap and pierce his heart, his lungs. A convulsive tremor shook him. Oil spilled from the jar. Oil--! With his last ounce of strength, he brought the jar up sharply, knowing even as he did it that his foe would block the blow. But the oil would keep on going, maybe.... It hit the alien full in the face. Burke could feel the thing lose control of its host. Even in his own brain, it was as if a crushing weight had suddenly been lifted. Simultaneously, the human giant's arms dropped. Burke ducked and threw himself bodily at the other's knees. The imbecile fell. And now, alien abandoned host, racing across the floor on its tentacles towards the shimmering, blue-white tank. Burke snatched up a second oil-jar; hurled its contents.