“You wake up again? Good.” He looked down at Kerry, chuckling. “What happened to you? A touch of the sun? Well, we’re all more or less crazy these days. I’m afraid you’ll be stiff and sore for a few days; those neuron-guns are no joke.” He beckoned to a nurse, who brought a sterile tray. The interne rolled back Kerry’s sleeve, dabbed at it and jabbed him again with a needle. Kerry’s lips were still stiff. He put up his hand and rubbed at them and managed to mumble, “What’s that?” “Neurotone,” the interne said. “If you have much muscular pain, see your own doctor and get another shot.” He turned to someone just outside the door. “He’s all right now. He must have caught it right in the chest. Good thing you have a strong heart, Mr. Donalson. A man your age doesn’t want to take too many shocks like that.” A policeman stood hesitant in the doorway. “Listen, Mister,” he said, “I’m sorry I had to shoot you, only don’t you _never_ run away when a policeman yells at you. You _know_ we can’t take chances with the Pharigs!” “You needn’t apologize, Sergeant,” said another voice behind him. Kerry, stooping to lace his shoes, straightened and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He looked up at Commander Lal, who made a dismissing motion at the policeman. “A guilty conscience is a very bad thing to have around a police station, Mr. Donalson,” said Commander Lal. “If you had waited for a minute you would have known there was no charge against you. And just to relieve your mind I may add that you will be perfectly free to leave here in half an hour. However, I must first request the favor of an interview.” Downstairs in a small, windowless office, the commander took a seat behind a battered desk, obviously not his own, and gestured Kerry to a chair. “Before we begin,” he said quietly, “I want to make one thing clear. Ben Thrusher was brought here at his own request--a statement which the members of your family can verify. At the last moment, I believe he didn’t want to make trouble for you by dying in your house.” His eyes, dark and level and severe, met those of Kerry across the desk. “I assure you that you are in no personal danger,” he said. “On the other hand, it is absolutely imperative that we keep you from making--shall we say--irresponsible statements.” The door to an inner office opened, and Lew Fallon, escorted by Night Police, came in. He looked a trifle rumpled and sinister, with a torn collar and the traces of a bloody nose, and he was accompanied by a man whose face Kerry dimly recognized before memory could put a name to him. He was Paul Chapman, the Australian rocketry expert who had dropped out of sight at the same time as Ben Thrusher. He was bandaged like Ben, and battered and toothless. But he was recognizable. Commander Lal dropped a crumpled piece of paper on the desk. “I believe that you’ll want to reconsider before printing this,” he said.