Psychometry was trying frantically to find the cause. It seemed obvious that the Venusian Colonists might be causing psychotics to appear in order to swell their ranks of volunteers to go to Venus to start a "new dynamic, progressive order." Madness. Suicide. Progressive evolutionary philosophies meant change, and change might lead anywhere. But eventually it could only lead to another horrible _Chain_. One Chain had been enough. The earth had been thoroughly wrecked. The few survivors had set up the anti-reality standards, the Cowls and the Codes--and the Controllers. They established the Dream Continuity that led to the various anesthetic stages. But people went insane. They disagreed. They fled the Cowls. Venusian Colonial Enterprises resulted. It was organized insanity. A neatly planned psychosis, with grandiose delusions of justification. They would save humanity! Madness. Schizophrenia. Venusian Colonization had been organized three years before. At least four known spaceships had been constructed, stocked, and blasted. They changed their subterranean hideouts after each blast. It had just never occurred to Greg that Pat could go psycho and join them. It was even more ridiculous for the Controllers to suspect _him_ of being psycho. He felt a little better as the cruiser broke out beyond the Cowl and into the blazing natural sun of noon. It blinded Greg. Frightened him a little. He'd never seen the sun before, except dimmed by the Cowl. He sent the cruiser climbing rapidly above the weird grotesque terrain. Drakeson jumped into the seat beside him. His face was white. "Open the converter feed valves wide, Greg! Clear open! The Control cars aren't stopping at the merger. They're coming on through. They're right behind us." Greg looked back. Ten sky-cars, and within neuro-gun range. He jerked the converter wide open. Acceleration slammed him back hard. He knew now what fear was. In dreams you never suffered it. * * * * * The audio in the control panel cracked out. "Dalson! Drakeson! Turn around! Re-enter the Cowl. Return immediately. This is a Control Council order. Do so or we fire with full charge neuro-blasts." Paralysis guns. And full blast. Greg swallowed. They meant business. And without even a formal enquiry! Drakeson said in a whisper. "What are we going to do?" Greg didn't know. How could they think he was psycho? Drakeson licked his lips. "I don't want to go under the brain-probers, Greg. Nobody does. I don't want to be re-conditioned. I want to stay like I am. I'm not psycho. And they'll brain-probe us sure if we don't turn around and go back. And even if we do--" The audio's cold impersonal voice said: "This is the last order. The neuro-guns are ready to fire." Greg's mind ran in mad circles. He tried to think. He felt Drakeson move, and then he saw Drakeson's hand with that infernal injection solution jiggling around in a big hypodermic syringe.