He shielded, and hatred of her and of all Oholos--inbred hate, overcame him. It brought an almost pathological bravado with it. The destructive drive for revenge was a surge within him. He dropped the shield and thought to her, slow and gloatingly, of the things in store for her when she was safely disarmed and helpless. And he permitted his hate to leap and caress her, and the details of the torture were etched in passion acid. After a while, he could feel her shudder at the thoughts, and he simpered. She seemed to lie helpless, stunned under him, spurring him to greater imaginative excesses. Then she struck out blindly, a shivering blow that caught him unaware between the eyes like a swung club. * * * * * He shielded. Instantly he felt the guilt of last night. He was angry at himself, as if he had acted without really wanting to, as a Knoug was supposed to act. And he snarled a curse. The maddening, uncompromising pressure returned. Implacable. Patient. Unanswerable. Pressure that would drive him insane if he had no eventual hope of release. He shuddered, and the sense of depression--the night sense--was even more dark and terrible in daylight. He got out of bed, reported to the Advanceship, keeping his voice low and even. "Parr. Scheduling." "Check." The voice from the Ship was a stabbing, accusing voice. A voice that _knew_, that had made, overnight, a secret and awful discovery about him. He wanted to grovel before it and plead for forgiveness.... _Nonsense!_ He licked his lips nervously. "That damned female!" he shrieked. "Eh?" "That damned female, don't you see!" "Parr, what's wrong? Listen, Parr, are you all right down there?" Suddenly he relaxed. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong." "Are you sure?" "Yes," he said. "I'm just a little nervous." * * * * * He ordered the driver to stop. The building was columned, red brick, decayed. The sidewalk before it was grimy, littered, cracked, chipped. Listlessly, people shuffled down the street, flecks from the vortex of humanity farther uptown drifting in the backwater of the city. Faded overalls, jeans, thin unpressed cheap suits, frayed shirts and crumpled soggy collars. Faces--lean, hollow, blotched; eyes that were harried, red, tired. The women, still trying to retain the snap of movement, were like wind-up toys, almost run down. Parr grunted at the smells of the area, and straightening up to pay the driver, noticed distastefully the slack faces, defeated eyes and shuffling steps. Then he knew: here, pressing in from all sides was reassurance. He watched a haggered face, felt pity, shook off the emotion as unworthy but still felt it. He could understand the haggered face. But distaste returned again, for he was superior to the face. He blocked off his mind, refusing to consider the natives any longer....