I fumbled my way into a couch and tried to think. In my condition--with a broken leg and third-degree burns, plus a fractured skull--I shouldn't have been able to fall out of bed, much less make the trip from _Belshazzar's_ CCC to the boat; and how had I managed to dog that port shut? In an emergency a man was capable of great exertions. But running on a broken femur, handling heavy levers with charred fingers and thinking with a cracked head were overdoing it. Still, I was here--and it was time to get a call through to TSA headquarters. I flipped the switch and gave the emergency call-letters Col. Ausar Kayle of Aerospace Intelligence had assigned to me a few weeks before. It was almost five minutes before the "acknowledge" came through from the Ganymede relay station, another ten minutes before Kayle's face swam into view. Even through the blur of the screen I could see the haggard look. "Granthan!" he burst out. "Where are the others? What happened out there?" I turned him down to a mutter. "Hold on," I said. "I'll tell you. Recorders going?" I didn't wait for an answer--not with a fifteen-minute transmission lag. I plowed on: "_Belshazzar_ was sabotaged. So was _Gilgamesh_--I think. I got out. I lost a little skin, but the aid cabinet has the case in hand. Tell the Med people the drinks are on me." I finished talking and flopped back, waiting for Kayle's reply. On the screen, his flickering image gazed back impatiently, looking as hostile as a swing-shift ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I would get his reaction to my report. I dozed off--and awoke with a start. Kayle was talking. "--your report. I won't mince words. They're wondering at your role in the disaster. How does it happen that you alone survived?" "How the hell do I know?" I yelled--or croaked. But Kayle's voice was droning on: "... you Psychodynamics people have been telling me the Gool may have some kind of long-range telehypnotic ability that might make it possible for them to subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You've told me yourself that you blacked out during the attack--and came to on the lifeboat, with no recollection of how you got there. "This is war, Granthan. War against a vicious enemy who strike without warning and without mercy. You were sent out to investigate the possibility of--what's that term you use?--hyper-cortical invasion. You know better than most the risk I'd be running if you were allowed to pass the patrol line. "I'm sorry, Granthan. I can't let you land on Earth. I can't accept the risk." "What do I do now?" I stormed. "Go into orbit and eat pills and hope you think of something? I need a doctor!"