None came. Instead, the gentle insistent pressure returned, undiminished by her efforts. She was stationary now; the pressure was steady. His body had been tense for a long time. It ached, and he was physically exhausted. His hand shook a little as he brushed at his leg, waiting for the space variations to begin again. They did not. But the initial confidence--generated by the realization of her inexperience--was no longer so bright. The very pressure itself now was an emotional drain and he wanted to lower the mind shield and relax completely. But even at a distance a mental assault would sting like a slap, like a cut, like disinfectant in a raw wound. Under the strain, sleep was lost. Instead there was uneasiness. He tried to ignore it. He forced himself to remember his home village. It had been a long time since he had thought of it, and at first it was difficult. But after a while, memories began to open up with nostalgia: the clumsy citizens with their mute opposition to the Empire, a _jehi_ farmer who had once addressed his class on planetism and afterwards been shot, the smell of the air, the look in people's eyes, night ... the stars.... The stars were cold and bright and far away. Imposing symbols of Empire. His mind turned comfortingly on that, and his planet seemed dwarfed and unimportant. The Empire, with its glittering capital system, the sleek trade arteries ... the purposeful masses of citizens ... the strength and power of it, the essential rightness of it. Something you could feel in the air about you and smell and see. It was a thing to be believed in, to be lost in, to surrender yourself to. It was strong, crushing opposition, rolling magnificently down the stream of time--splintering, shattering, destroying, absorbing, growing hungry and eternal. He was part of it, and its strength protected him. It was stronger than everything. There could be no doubt about Empire. But a single Oholo was strong, too. He stirred restlessly on the bed, unable to dissect out the thing that bothered him when he thought of the Empire. His thoughts had run the full cycle, and they were back where they had started. It seemed for a moment as if his mind were a shiny polished surface, like an egg floating beneath his skull, hanging on invisible threads of sensation that ran to the outside world. The room was full of moonlight. * * * * * With fascination he studied the wall paper, a flower design scrawled repetitiously between slightly diagonal lines of blue. He concentrated on the rough texture of the paper, let his eyes drift down to where the paper met the cream siding, revealing twin rifts of plaster. A thin line of chalk-like dust had fallen on the wood of the floor. The edge of the rug, futilely stretching for contact with the wall, curled fuzzily. A faint breeze fluttered the half drawn blinds, puffed the lace curtains, rippled in to his bed and body. _He was guilty of something._