It was a cold, unfriendly room, and Brandt lay on his back on a hard metal cot. His temples were pounding as he stared up at a three-quarter moon that peered in through a high-silled window. Moonlight glowed eerily in the small cubicle, painting the close gray walls with its soft light. For a chilling moment, Brandt did not know where he was. It was like waking from a bad dream. His pulses throbbed, and he was covered with the cold dampness of fright. Even his limbs seemed pinioned by an intolerable weight. Then he remembered--up to a point--and an even colder dread of reality settled over him. He was a criminal! When every pretense had been set aside--he was a criminal locked up in a prison. There was no escaping the fact. He was a telepath, and Blanding and Ellen were telepaths, too. But a dark, cruel gulf yawned between them. The door to his cell slid open noisily and a self-propelled wheel chair rolled in. “Prisoner will report to R and C at once!” The metallic voice seemed to come from everywhere. Brandt got off the cot and moved quickly toward the door. The chair rolled in front of him. He stopped and stared at this strange guard on wheels. Then he calmly seated himself. The chair promptly turned about, and moved out into the corridor. The corridor seemed endless. Around and around it stretched on either side of him. The chair turned to the right. REGISTRATION & CLASSIFICATION The sign hung above a door before which the chair had stopped. Brandt got off and opened the door. He tripped on the smooth metal bar which was stretched across the doorway, and fell against a tilted examining table. Instantly the table swung to horizontal and slid forward, carrying Brandt into a domed chamber equipped with weird instruments. Bands of nylon swiftly bound him motionless to the table. An instrument, shining and ominous, lowered toward him. At its tip a needle slid out of its rubber shield. Brandt strained desperately against the bonds. The syringe lowered to his arm, and paused while a correction in angle was made. Then it plunged into his flesh. Brandt gasped. The room spun wildly and a blackness settled over him. When he awoke, he was in another cubicle--bare except for a chrome table. The nylon bands hung limply across him. He pushed them away and sat up. A light splashed on the table. On it were two badges. One had the number TP-07403 stamped on it. The other read “Observation.” “Pin them on,” the voice said. “Number on left breast, classification on right.” Brandt picked up the badges and began to fasten them on his shirt, his hand shaking a little. “You must wear identification tags at all times,” warned the voice. “Prisoner will report to orientation.” Brandt looked about for a door. There was none. “Get back on the table!” the voice ordered. Brandt obeyed and the table carried him into yet another room. “Identify yourself!” the metal voice commanded. “Neville Brandt.” “Identify yourself more explicitly--as a prisoner.”