Such shielding might work for laboratories, but there was no way to shield troop movements and take-offs and landings. These would be as public as an advertisement. His face was wet. He could not understand this until another bucket of water hit him. An Asian bent over him, saw that his eyes were open, and grunted with satisfaction. They started again on his fingers. The radio operator called to Cuso, giving him a message. Zen could not understand the language but the Asian leader was both startled and elated. He shouted at the men carrying loads to work faster. "Not much time left. Big bomb coming." "What bomb?" Zen thought. With the question came the answer. Warned by Cuso that their preparations were probably known, the Asians had decided to launch their super bomb immediately. Turmoil came up inside Zen at this knowledge. Real pain came from his finger tips as the torturers began operations again. "Do you want to die?" the race mind whispered in his thoughts. Although he couldn't contact it, the race field could reach him. "You have suffered all that is required. You have met the law. You may join me, if you wish." "I--" Zen shut off his thinking. This was fantasy, the product of torture and nearing dissolution. His own imagination was tricking him, he thought. "This is not your imagination," the answer came. "This is what you call the race mind." "But--" "How do you know? You don't. At this point, you have to accept me on faith." The thinking flowing smoothly into his mind went into silence, then came again, stronger than before. "Do you want to die? You have earned the right." "No," Zen answered. He screamed the words again. "No. No!" "The path before you will be difficult." "I don't care how difficult it is. There's work to be done!" Again he shouted the words. "Very well. It is your choice. You may remain among the living for as long as your strength may last." The voice whispering in his mind went into silence. Kurt continued screaming. Pain raced through his consciousness again. As he came awake he realized that he was screaming at the torturer to stop. He also realized that the Asian had stopped. There was a sound in the gallery. Filling the air, it seemed to emerge from the very walls of the mountain itself. The note of a violin! High and sweet and compelling, the sound came from nowhere. Every atom in the solid stone walls seemed to pick it up and to rebroadcast it. The molecules of the air seemed to dance in resonance with it. Simultaneously, about ten feet above the floor, the face appeared again. The lieutenant's rifle blasted at it. He fired shot after shot at point blank range. Red-hot slugs howled from the walls of the big gallery in a cacophony of death. The face smiled at the lieutenant. The lips moved. "Keep shooting, old fellow," the lips seemed to say. The officer emptied his gun. In a desperate burst of fear, he threw it at the mocking face.