Somewhat as a form of apology he said, "It probably won't surprise you too much to know that I have decided to continue my fight on the side of the people of Earth. I am not going to let the accident of ancestry blind me to the justice of their cause. Also, regardless of my personal feelings, I must do whatever is necessary to attain my end. Do you see what I am trying to say?" "I do," the Brain answered. "Your next question is, will I consent to close the 'door' voluntarily. My answer will be no, and then you will say that you must kill me. Am I right?" Ostby nodded. "Tell me," he said, "are you not afraid to die?" "The instinct of self-preservation is as strong in me as it ever was." "Then I can only offer you my deepest regrets for what I must do." Ostby rose and gripped the back of his chair--he should be able to smash the brain-box with that, he decided--and found himself unable to lift it! "And I must offer my regrets at the necessity of defending myself," the Brain said ironically. "I will allow no one to harm me. I am going to release you from my mental grip now, and I want you to leave this room. Never come in my presence again with the intent to harm me or I will be forced to kill you." The voice was entirely emotionless throughout. Ostby's strength returned in a warm wave that washed his body free of the stasis that bound him, and vigor flowed back into his muscles. But he knew he was helpless before the unnormal powers of the mind before him, and he turned and left the room. VI By the time Ostby reached the outer balcony a black frustration clogged his veins. To be so close and still be unable to act. He was willing to give his life to close the "door," but every way he turned he found himself battering against walls of futility. The anger within him now, so close to despair, was more than he could control. His reason feared that anger and he fought against it, but it went with him like a tangible thing and he knew that he could no longer restrain it. The sight of the Imperator lounging in an easy chair on the balcony, his face, arrogant and powerful, set in its habitual expression of disdainful hauteur, did nothing to ease Ostby's emotional storm. "I've been reading the police reports concerning you and giving them some thought," the Imperator's voice laid its heavy weight on him. "My conclusions are not very flattering. I find you lack many admirable qualities. I'm about convinced that your dominant characteristics are cunning and guile rather than strength. If there is one thing I hate it's a dissembling man." "You could be wrong," Ostby said, so softly that only a man as confident and self-assured as the Imperator would have missed the pent-up force behind the softness.