Then he fought back. Against the soothing sibilance. Against the dancing lights. He turned his thoughts inward, to things of his childhood, to sights he had seen; gray rats chasing a man; an empty cradle in an empty hut; Marva sweet in his arms, perfume in her hair.... And his teeth were clenched over his lips. The pain was cruel, relentless. His nails in his palms. Pain and memory to fight sleep! And he won! The full white light flashed on. The siren voices died. The promising lights were defeated. He blinked his tired, weighted eyes. And Metas stood there. "You have not succumbed," the Logician whispered. His face was haggard with strain. "No one has ever resisted hypno." He turned to one of the Gard: "Bring Aleena." Bitter-eyed he said to Allyn, "Perhaps your consent will come quicker if the medics work on your sister." "Metas," Allyn strained against his bonds, "if you harm her I will bring the Dome crashing about us." The Logician leaned forward: "Ah, then you found the weapons of the Originals." "No, only the power of the York folk...." "If they are so mighty, why did they not cross the Barrier?" "They need a vessel." Allyn tried to explain: "It is like transmitting and receiving waves. They will transmit, and through me you will receive super-sonics that will shatter the dome." Metas laughed. * * * * * It was hopeless. Talk would never convince him. The door opened. They brought Aleena in. She started at sight of her brother, and her face went pale. But they pushed her roughly to a table and began to strap her down. Allyn shut his eyes against the room, shut his ears against sound. He flung open his mind, cancelling all imagery, so the York folk could come through. "Jon! Jon of York!" Out against the miles he hurled his voiceless plea. Over and over he called. Gentle tendrils touched his brain. At first it was like a whisper. There were no words. But the whisper grew--grew to crescendo. It pulled at every nerve in his body, used every particle that composed him. He shook with vibrations. His body was a stringed weapon out of which poured wares pitched too high for hearing. He was blind and deaf and mute--an empty vessel from which poured destruction. He did not know how long he was gone out of the shell of his body. Slowly, gradually, his trembling stilled. Identity settled back inside him. Sound came back. Over and over, the soft sobbing of his name: "Allyn! Allyn!" Hazily the room came to focus. Vague outlines of a face above him. Featureless, at first. Dark hair, all atumble, dark eyes aglisten with tears. His cheek was wet with her tears. "Marva," his voice came hardly out of him. Behind her the Logicians were grouped, white and sick of face. "You cracked the dome!" Metas' words were hoarse ill past believing. _Cracked the dome!_ He could have shouted. Had he been free he might have danced. He sent a voiceless thanks to the Redbearded Elder. "We've done it."