Kerry looked at him, appalled. “Does that mean--that some men from the rocket project sold out to the Pharigs?” Lew Fallon cut in angrily, “Listen to what he _says_, will you, not to your own ideas! Why do you think he had to disappear? He’s trying to tell you that the ship was a big fake. There aren’t any Pharigs. There never were any!” If Ben had said it, Kerry might have dismissed it as delirium. He stared at the hard-headed youth, then back at the dying man on the bed, Ben’s hairless skull moved in silent agreement. When the silence threatened to become unendurable, Kerry said quite reasonably, “But that’s impossible.” “Have you ever seen a Pharig? Has anyone you know ever seen one? What do you know about the Pharigs? Not just what do you copy off the news releases and the news wires and the propaganda releases of Earth United, but what do you _really_ know?” Kerry pressed his fingers against his eyes. “How do I know the south pole exists? I’ve never been there. How do I know the moon’s not made of green cheese? No, I’ve never seen a Pharig.” “And neither has anybody else, because there aren’t any such creatures.” “You’re crazy,” Kerry said. But to his surprise his voice carried no conviction. He was trying to remember the different Pharig atrocity stories he had printed in the last year. People brutally murdered in the streets--buildings and property wrecked. Yet the crime rate was falling so low that city after city was abolishing its prison system. If the Pharigs did not exist, why were such inhuman acts committed? He put the question in terrible puzzlement, adding, “Of course I’ve never seen a Pharig. Not to my knowledge. But they’re humanoid. It takes a neuron-gun charge to prove a man isn’t one, and if he is, there isn’t enough left for an autopsy. For all I know, you could both be Pharigs!” “Convenient, isn’t it?” Ben Thrusher said, a bleak hopelessness in his voice. Lew Fallon interrupted. “Have you ever seen a single so-called Pharig atrocity that couldn’t be the work of human vandals or hooligans?” Kerry said helplessly, “There’s no arguing on those grounds.” Ben twisted spasmodically on the bed, pressing his swollen face into the pillow. His voice came out muffled. “No arguing with me. What about you? You understand it better now. Even if the hoax could be exposed, who’d believe it after thirteen years? And the longer it goes on, the harder it would be to convince anyone. Oh hell, why didn’t I die in the crash? After all I went through to get in touch with you--” He pounded the pillow furiously with his swathed fists, then collapsed and lay still, gasping and choking. Kerry approached the bed and laid a hand on the quivering shoulders. “Try to get some rest, old man. Can’t you tell me in the morning?” Ben Thrusher rolled over. His face had visibly deteriorated in the last few hours. Now it was a swollen, grotesque mask, unnaturally drained of all expression.