Malloy dug out his Asphixion pad, and readied the tab to pull off the plastic coating. Clamped over the guards' faces, the catalytic agent would rapidly absorb the men's oxygen. With a partial vacuum in the mouth and larynx, no cries could carry and the victim would rapidly black out. The pad would be removed and the guards would be allowed to catch up on their air intake. They wouldn't be harmed in any way final, so their emergency psi warning system wasn't supposed to cut in. Malloy shrugged. The plan would never work. It was based on equal parts of megalomania and wishful thinking. Malloy's only problem was when and how to best expose the plot before it was found out without his help. He couldn't stand up and shout a warning. If he tried that, one of the fanatic Jockeys was sure to clamp an Asphixion pad over his face, and, with him, they might not be considerate enough to remove it. Only a treacherous, self-seeking rat would even think of exposing these poor misguided people and betraying his own race to some extra-terrestrial viruses. Malloy's elbows slipped out from under him and he went face first into the mud. He forced himself to keep from spluttering and lifted his head. _Where had that idea come from?_ * * * * * For one adrenalin-charged moment, he thought he had finally acquired a Rider. But no. A Rider would hardly urge him to carry out an attack against the citadel of existence to its own kind. It had to be something simpler, more elemental than that. The voice had been his own conscience crying out against treason. He followed the probable train of circumstances if he heeded his conscience. He would most probably be killed in this useless attack. He doubted that this was the _only_ breeding chamber for Riders, or, that if it were, the Riders safely in human bodies couldn't transplant part of themselves and start new cultures. If he wasn't killed, he would probably be returned to his cell, his padded cell, by Rider-ridden people. If he were somehow let off, he would be left to wander the streets, a public ward. The trouble with his conscience was that it wasn't logical--and it had a poor memory. It didn't recall those three and a half years mislaid in an asylum. _Only an unprincipled_-- Malloy shut it off and felt a drop of sweat running down the deep crevices between his eyebrows. My only problem, he reminded himself again and again, is how and when to expose this raid before they discover it without my help. The solution bloomed in his mind. It was remarkable how well the human mind could operate under stress. He half-rose from the mud so he would be silhouetted to anybody watching, and fell back. The guards hadn't spotted him, but he heard the Jockeys scurrying toward him through the mud. The squishing halted near him. He waited. The commandos moved ahead, leaving him behind.