The sense of helplessness that came with it was almost more than he could bear. Sheer lack of knowledge half-paralyzed him. Desperately, he wondered what he should do; how his role and true identity called for him to react. Still gloating, Pfaff leaned back; rested his heavy hams against the doloid table. "Well, bucko?" he prodded. With an effort, Dane held his voice steady. "I can't tell you what I don't know. All those questions--I simply don't remember." "Nor this thing? You don't remember it, either?" As he spoke, the Security rep picked up the Kalquoi yat-stick from the table and held it out for Dane's inspection. Frowning, Dane studied it. A good foot long, Earth measurement, and purplish in hue, it was formed of some heavy alien metal. The basic outline was that of a slingshot crotch--a sort of handle that forked into two prongs to form a Y. But a bar across the top closed the fork, and a continuation of the handle came up to meet the bar at right angles, making a T. Bracing members from the point where the stem of the T met the crosspiece ran to the middle of each arm of the Y, then in their turn were joined into a triangle by another crosspiece. With a little imagination, Dane saw, it would be easy enough to vision the unit in its entirety as forming a word or syllable, YAT. "It's a funny thing," Pfaff observed with an emphasis anything but mirthful. "No one knows just what these gadgets are for. The best the extraterrestial ethnologists can come up with is a lot of thes-gas about symbolism and religious significance. That stuff I wouldn't know about. But one thing's for sure: where you find yat-sticks, you find Kalquoi." Dane made no comment. "This one," Pfaff pressed, extending the yat-stick, "was lying half under you in that cave where we picked you up." Dane shrugged. "That's all you've got to say? You won't tell me any more about it?" "What can I tell you?" Dane came back wearily. "Don't you understand? I don't know. I can't remember." The Security rep's broad face drew into a chill, expressionless mask. His bullet-head sank deeper between his shoulders. "All right," he clipped harshly, flinging the yat-stick back down upon the table. "You want it hard, I'll give it to you that way. This is a survey ship. Start talking, or I'll have 'em throw you in the bem-tank." "The bem-tank--?" Dane stared. "Don't give me that! You know what I mean! Survey ships bring in samples of extraterrestial life--the kind of bug-eyed monsters that give a man nightmares even to think about. What they do to you if they get the chance shouldn't happen to a quontab." A chill ran through Dane. "But I don't know--" "Tell it to the bems!" Already, Pfaff was jamming his thumb down on a buzzer button. "You had your chance, you stabat! Now we'll play it my way. You and the narcoanalyst and that vidal Nelva Guthrie--you'll see who's got the answers!"