The girl tried to push him away. Her eyes were bright and huge, staring at him. "Andrei!" "_Da, Andrei! Kok eto dosadno!_" "Andrei, please. I know that you are--" "Filthy!" screamed Chandler's voice. "How can you? I do not allow this carrion to touch you so--not vot is mine--I do not allow him to live!" And Chandler dropped her and leaped to his feet. He fought. He struggled; but only in his mind, and helplessly; his body carried him out of the room, running and stumbling, out into the drive, into her waiting car and away. He drove like a madman on roads he had never seen before. The car's gears bellowed pain at their abuse, the tires screamed. Chandler, prisoned inside himself, recognized that touch. Koitska! He knew who Rosalie Pan's lover had been. If he had been in doubt his own voice, raucous and hysterical with rage, told him the truth. All that long drive it screamed threats and obscenities at him, in Russian and tortured English. The car stopped in front of the TWA facility and, still prisoned, his body hurried in, bruising itself deliberately against every doorpost and stick of furniture. "I could have smashed you in the car!" his voice screamed hoarsely. "It is too merciful. I could have thrown you into the sea! It is not painful enough." In the garage his body stopped and looked wildly around. "Knives, torches," his lips chanted. "Shall I gouge out eyes? Slit throat?" A jar of battery acid stood on a shelf, "_Da, da!_" screamed Chandler, stumbling toward it. "One drink eh? And I von't even stay vith you to feel it, the pain--just a moment--then it eats the gut, the long slow dying...." And all the time the body that was Chandler's was clawing the cap off the jar, tilting it-- He dropped the jar, and leaped aside instinctively as it splintered at his feet. He was free! Before he could move he was seized again, stumbled, crashed into a wall-- And was free again. He stood waiting for a moment, unable to believe it; but he was still free. The alien invader did not seize his mind. There was no sound. No one moved. No gun fired at him, no danger threatened. He _was_ free; he took a step, turned, shook his head and proved it. He was free and, in a moment, realized that he was in the building with the fat bloated body of the man who wanted to murder him, the body that in its own strength could scarcely stand erect. It was suicide to attempt to harm an exec. He would certainly lose his life--except--that was gone already anyhow; he had lost it. He had nothing left to lose. XIV Chandler loped silently up the stairs to Koitska's suite. Halfway up he tripped and sprawled, half stunning himself against the stair rail. It had not been his own clumsiness, he was sure. Koitska had caught at his mind again, but only feebly. Chandler did not wait. Whatever was interfering with Koitska's control, some distraction or malfunction of the coronet or whatever, Chandler could not bank on its lasting. The door was locked.