Yet resist it he must, for his captors still stood close by, and he had no taste for the sting of the light-beams they flung at him. * * * * * Grimly, he concentrated on Nelva Guthrie, trying to force himself to think of her instead of the sky-thrust lance so close beside him. Strain-lines marred the girl's blonde beauty now. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks pale, her lips trembling. And yet, for all of that, she was still the loveliest thing Clark Dane had ever seen. The yearning for her gnawed at him like a physical hunger. Now the interplay of form and color from the line of Kalquoi indicated they were probing her mind. Dane could see her straighten, just a little ... breathe a fraction faster. Her hands moved, rubbing at the side-melds of her garment as if to scrub sweat from her palms. More shapes, more colors from the Kalquoi. More signs of tension from Nelva Guthrie. Dane could catch only fragments of the projected thoughts and feelings. Yet something was wrong. Instinctively, he sensed it. A knot drew tight, deep in his belly. He breathed harder. To what purpose? No matter what happened, there was nothing he could do. He knew that. Only--Nelva-- He never finished the thought. For abruptly, without warning, the same Kalquoi who minutes before had sent the searing charge through Dane's dazed brain blazed again--a great flash, orange and white and turquoise. The thought smashed in, so violent that even at this distance--even though it was directed at Nelva--the impact made Dane's head reel: _She-creature, you close your brain to us! You hold back like the others! You want no peace--_ Nelva's scream came like an agonized, overriding echo. Blindly, she staggered forward, clutching her head between her hands. But the Kalquoi gave no heed. As if the girl were not there, he deluged the whole area with a raging, searing, tidal wave of energy. Nelva sagged to her knees. Her cry was the keening of a soul in torment. It was a trigger to turn a man to utter madness. Spasmodically, Dane started forward. But there was no way to reach the girl, and in his heart he knew it. Too many Kalquoi, too many light-beams, stood ranged between him and her. But the shining needle, the Sandoz Shaft--it was relatively unprotected for the moment-- Spinning, Dane dived towards it--low, beneath the level at which his captors hovered. His shoulder crashed against the heavy, buttressed base. His hands closed on a corroded telonium bar. Tearing it from the litter, he surged up, heedless to the light-beams that stung at his back and sides. The bar had weight to it. Dane swung it with all his might, straight at the seemingly empty space between socket and needle-tip. If only he could upset the delicate balance of forces that held the shaft upright, and bring it crashing down, almost anything might happen!