Complete mastery would come with time, but he could already understand why the Pyrrans never removed their guns. It would be like removing a part of your own body. The movement of gun from holster to hand was too fast for him to detect. It was certainly faster than the neural current that shaped the hand into the gun-holding position. For all apparent purposes it was like having a lightning bolt in your fingertip. Point the finger and _blamm_, there's the explosion. * * * * * Brucco had left Jason to practice alone. When his aching hand could take no more, he stopped and headed back towards his own quarters. Turning a corner he had a quick glimpse of a familiar figure going away from him. "Meta! Wait for a second--I want to talk to you." She turned impatiently as he shuffled up, going as fast as he could in the doubled gravity. Everything about her seemed different from the girl he had known on the ship. Heavy boots came as high as her knees, her figure was lost in bulky coveralls of some metallic fabric. The trim waist was bulged out by a belt of canisters. Her very expression was coldly distant. "I've missed you," he said. "I hadn't realized you were in this building." He reached for her hand but she moved it out of his reach. "What is it you want?" she asked. "What is it I want!" he echoed with barely concealed anger. "This is Jason, remember me? We're friends. It _is_ allowed for friends to talk without 'wanting' anything." "What happened on the ship has nothing to do with what happens on Pyrrus." She started forward impatiently as she talked. "I have finished my reconditioning and must return to work. You'll be staying here in the sealed buildings so I won't be seeing you." "Why don't you say 'with the rest of the children'--that's what your tone implies? And don't try walking out, there are some things we have to settle first--" Jason made the mistake of putting out his hand to stop her. He didn't really know what happened next. One instant he was standing--the next he sprawled suddenly on the floor. His shoulder was badly bruised, and Meta had vanished down the corridor. Limping back to his own room he cursed women in general and Meta in particular. Dropping onto his rock-hard bed he tried to remember the reasons that had brought him here in the first place. And weighed them against the perpetual torture of the gravity, the fear-filled dreams it inspired, the automatic contempt of these people for any outsider. He quickly checked the growing tendency to feel sorry for himself. By Pyrran standards he _was_ soft and helpless. If he wanted them to think any better of him, he would have to change a good deal. He sank into a fatigue-drugged sleep then, that was broken only by the screaming fear of his dreams. VII.