He concentrated. Every muscle, bone, nerve. Veins stood out on his neck. He fought. He was dented by fire inside his head. Hot, lancing tongues of flame. He tried to shrink away. He whimpered, groveled. His hands fumbled uselessly. She was nearly inside of him now. It was almost over. Her thoughts were like fingers rending and tearing at quivering unprotected flesh. He struggled hopelessly, retreating under a mental assault of unendurable ferocity. His outer memory was ripped away, a section of his childhood vanished forever. And then there was desperation in the assault wave. He could feel her trying to shake off an attempt to breach her concentration. He stiffened, relaxed, arched his body, struggled with her. Her attack suddenly crumbled into a distracted muddle. Her concentration had been shattered. His mind was trembling jelly, creamed with throbbing pain. But he could resist now, and slowly he forced her out. "I'll be back!" she lashed at him. And the hate in the thought was alive. "I'll kill you for this!" Then her thoughts began slowly to fade away and her mind shield came down. Parr shook with every muscle. "Buddy. Buddy," someone was saying, shaking his shoulder. "You sick, huh?" He struggled to his knee twisting his head back and forth, trying to regroup his memories. The sear places were vacant, empty, part of himself cut cleanly away. Immediate memories not yet stored and filed seemed to be floating free, unassociated--too widely spread to have been cut out, not too widely spread to have been mixed and shuffled. He was panting as he struggled with them, capturing them, tying them down, ordering them. Then he began to vomit. "You drink too much? Hey, buddy, you drink too much? I guess you drink too much, maybe?" * * * * * Understanding--half understanding--came with the words. He scrabbled up the wall until he was erect. His back pressed against the vertical tile for support. He turned and staggered from the stinking rest room, his hands forcing clumsily against the walls. In the short hallway he could hear voices. "And when he slumped over...." "She just sat there like she was _thinking_...." "You see the cop shake her?" "I thought she was gonna hit him with the ash tray." "Well, they sure hauled her outta here!" Parr staggered back into the night club. Eyes turned to stare at him. His head spun in nausea. He began to move leadenly toward the exit. There was a police officer in his path. The officer reached out to stop him, and he tried to shake the hand away from his shoulder. He tried to think, to reactivate his trained responses, knowing that he would have trouble with this man. He muttered wordlessly. The officer looked grim. "Not drunk," Parr gasped. "Sick." The officer was incredulous. Parr shook his head, and an explanation appeared from the basic psychology of the natives: a coded scrap, death-fear. "It ... it ... was horrible ... seeing him like that."