Suddenly he leaped to his feet, his face pale for a moment, as he obviously tried to remember what he had said. Then he laughed. "Clever. That's the first time that particular trick has been played on me, and the last time. But, gentlemen, it didn't do you any good. I don't know, myself, how to go about killing me." He laughed at the blank walls. "Besides," he continued, "the colonizing team must have the direction now. They'll find you with or without me." He sat down again, smiling. * * * * * "That does it!" Darrig cried. "He's not invulnerable. Something killed his friend Alfern." "Something out in space," Cercy reminded him. "I wonder what it was." "Let me see," Darrig reflected aloud. "The regularizing principle. That must be a natural law we knew nothing about. And underneath--what would be underneath?" "He said the colonization team would find us anyhow," Malley reminded them. "First things first," Cercy said. "He might have been bluffing us ... no, I don't suppose so. We still have to get the Ambassador out of the way." "I think I know what is underneath!" Darrig exclaimed. "This is wonderful. A new cosmology, perhaps." "What is it?" Cercy asked. "Anything we can use?" "I think so. But let me work it out. I think I'll go back to my hotel. I have some books there I want to check, and I don't want to be disturbed for a few hours." "All right," Cercy agreed. "But what--?" [Illustration] "No, no, I could be wrong," Darrig said. "Let me work it out." He hurried from the room. "What do you think he's driving at?" Malley asked. "Beats me," Cercy shrugged. "Come on, let's try some more of that psychological stuff." First they filled the Ambassador's room with several feet of water. Not enough to drown him, just enough to make him good and uncomfortable. To this, they added the lights. For eight hours, lights flashed in the Ambassador's room. Bright lights to pry under his eyelids; dull, clashing ones to disturb him. Sound came next--screeches and screams and shrill, grating noises. The sound of a man's fingernails being dragged across slate, amplified a thousand times, and strange, sucking noises, and shouts and whispers. Then, the smells. Then, everything else they could think of that could drive a man insane. The Ambassador slept peacefully through it all. * * * * * "Now look," Cercy said, the following day, "let's start using our damned heads." His voice was hoarse and rough. Although the psychological torture hadn't bothered the Ambassador, it seemed to have backfired on Cercy and his men. "Where in hell is Darrig?" "Still working on that idea of his," Malley said, rubbing his stubbled chin. "Says he's just about got it." "We'll work on the assumption that he can't produce," Cercy said. "Start thinking. For example, if the Ambassador can turn into anything, what is there he can't turn into?" "Good question," Harrison grunted.