Dane looked up sharply. "How did you know--?" "Simple logic. The analysis gave me all the things in your mind--about the man with the hairless skull who was your master, and the silver needle, and the Kalquoi. When I mentioned robots, it was almost certain to make you think about--the man." "Oh." "You don't need to worry, either. You're not a robot. Robots don't have feelings. Besides, the celloscope would have shown it if you were. As for the rest--the shaft--the Kalquoi--I imagine they're some sort of delusion. Tied in with your amnesia, perhaps--specialized situations the standard tests weren't geared to touch." "I see." Dane studied his knuckles. Yet what did he see? What, really? He wondered. Certainly not that the fiend-faced man and the silver needle and the Kalquoi were delusions! For as Nelva talked, her words had come faster and faster. A new note had crept into her voice--a note of tension. And now, as he watched her obliquely, he became acutely aware that her fingers were all at once ever so restless. Her lips showed a minute tendency to tremble, also, and the grey eyes stayed clear of him, as if the things she said were creating some under-current of conflict in her that she feared to let him see. * * * * * Dane's jaw tightened. Breathing carefully, evenly, he thought back once again to the way the girl had first looked at him--and then, how the blinds had come down, shutting him out. How could he trust this woman, while that hidden barrier in her eyes still stood between them? How dared he throw aside all suspicion, all caution, so long as she held back secrets? No; at root the dilemma still was his, and always would be. Not even Nelva Guthrie could share it with him. He had no choice but to go his own road, fight through to his private destiny. And what better time to start than now? Tight-lipped, he said, "All this is fine. But it looks to me like it's going in a circle." Nelva's hands moved nervously. Her eyes opened a trifle wider than seemed normal. "A circle--?" "You claim I've got amnesia, don't you? Only then you tell me I don't react right for it." Dane laughed, harsh and curt. "To me, that says we're getting nowhere." A knock broke off the conversation. Quickly, as if relieved at the interruption, Nelva crossed the room and opened the door. A uniformed tech held out a plastic cylinder. "Here's that cell-sheet, Miss Guthrie." "Good!" There was an air of relief in the way Nelva said it. She turned to Dane; gestured triumphantly with the cylinder. "This is the answer to your problems, Clark! Your cellemental analysis sheet! Come on!" Shrugging, Dane fell in beside her. He wondered wryly how he had so suddenly been promoted to first-name status.