"Oh, you fool," he told himself shrilly a moment later. Chandler's body knelt beside the wheezing fat lump, taking its pulse. The faint, fitful throb meant nothing to Chandler; probably meant nothing to Rosie either, for his body stood up, hesitated, shook its head. "You've done it now," he sobbed, and was surprised to find he was weeping real tears. "Oh, love, why? I could have taken care of Koitska--somehow--No, maybe I couldn't," he said frantically, breaking down. "I don't know what to do. Do you have any ideas--outside of running?" It took him several seconds to write the one word, but it was really all he could find to write. _No._ His lips twisted as his eyes read the word. "Well," he said practically, "I guess that's the end, love. I mean, I give up." He got up, turned around the room. "I don't know," he told himself worriedly. "There might be a chance--if we could hush this up. I'd better get a doctor. He'll have to use your body, so don't be surprised if there's someone and it isn't me. Maybe he can pull Andrei through. Maybe Andrei'll forgive you then--Or if he dies," Chandler's voice schemed as his eyes stared at the rasping motionless hulk, "we can say you broke down the door to _help_ him. Only you'll have to put his coronet back on, so it won't look suspicious. Besides that will keep anyone from occupying him. Do that, love. Hurry." And he was free. Gingerly Chandler crossed the floor. He did not like to touch the dying animal that wheezed before him, liked even less to give it back the weapon that, if it had only a few moments of sentience again, it would use to kill him. But the girl was right. Without the helmet any wandering curi-himself.[1] The helmet would shield him from-- [Footnote 1: Transcriber's note: As printed. Missing words, probably printer error.] Would shield anyone from-- Would shield Chandler himself from possession if he used it! He did not hesitate. He slipped the helmet on his head, snapped the switch and in a moment stood free of his own body, in the gray, luminous limbo, looking down at the pallid traceries that lay beneath. * * * * * He did not hesitate then either. He did not pause to think or plan; it was as though he had planned every step, in long detail, over many years. Chandler for at least a few moments had the freedom to battle the execs on their own ground, the freedom that any mourning parent or husband in the outside world would know well how to use. Chandler also knew. He was a weapon. He might die--but it was not a great thing to die, millions had done it for nothing under the rule of the execs, and he was privileged to be able to die trying to kill _them_.