LEFT HAND, RIGHT HAND By JAMES H. SCHMITZ Illustrated by SCHELLING _Men were tortured ... men were killed ... and the Earth Scientists chatted pleasantly with the Tareeg. Were they traitors or were they waiting for The Ice Men?_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories November 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jerry Newland was sitting up on the side of his bunk, frowning at the floor, when Troy Gordon came quietly into the room and stopped at the entrance to watch him. Not too good, Troy thought after a moment, studying Newland's loose mouth, the slow blinking of the eyes and the slumped immobility of position. Not too bad either--not for a man who, in most practical respects, had been dead for the better part of three years and come awake again only the day before. But the question was whether Newland was going to recover quickly enough now to be of any use as an ally. Troy moved forward a few steps into the room, stopped again as Newland raised his head in a sluggish motion to stare at him. For a few seconds, the man's face remained blank. Then he grinned. A strained, unpleasant-looking grin, but a grin. Troy waited. Newland cleared his throat, said, "I ... I recognized you almost immediately this time! And ... I remembered that this same thing had happened before." Troy grinned, too, guardedly. "My coming into the room this way?" Newland nodded. "It happened yesterday," Troy said. "What's my name?" "Troy Gordon." "And yours?" "Jerry Franklin Newland." "What do you do?" "Do?... Oh!" Newland drew a deep breath. "I'm courier pilot for the ... for the...." He stopped, looking first surprised, then dismayed. Then his face wrinkled up slowly, like that of a child about to cry. "That part's gone again, eh?" Troy asked, watching him. "Yes. There's some ... there's...." "You are--or you were--courier pilot for the Cassa Expedition," Troy said. He thumped his heel on the floor. "That's Cassa One, underneath us. We've been away from Earth for three years and eight months." He paused. "Does that help?" Newland reflected, frowned. "Not much. I ... it seems to be true when you say it." He hesitated. "We're prisoners, aren't we?" "Uh-huh," he answered, flatly. "I had that feeling. And you're hiding me here?" "That's right," Troy agreed. "Why?" "Because nobody else knows you're still alive. It's better if they don't, right now." Newland shook his head, indicated a sign fastened to the ceiling above the bunk in such a way that a man lying in the bunk on his back would catch sight of it as soon as he opened his eyes. "That," he said, "made sense as soon as I saw it just now! I remembered having read it before and what it meant. But otherwise everything's still badly blurred."