They strapped him into a device that recorded pulse, perspiration, respiration, muscle-tension and brainwaves. A sweatered specialist came and mildly asked Wyman matter-of-fact questions about his surroundings while he calibrated the polygraph. Then came the pay-off. Wyman did not fail to note that the sub commander loosened his gun in his holster when the questioning began. "Name, age and origin?" "Max Wyman. Twenty-two. Buffalo Syndic Territory." "Do you like the Syndic?" "I hate them." "What are your feelings toward the North American Government?" "If it's against the Syndic, I'm for it." "Would you rob for the North American Government?" "I would." "Would you kill for it?" "I would." "Have you any reservations yet unstated in your answers?" "No." It went on for an hour. The questions were re-phrased continuously; after each of Wyman's firm answers, the sweatered technician gave a satisfied little nod. At last it ended and he was unstrapped from the device. Max was tired. The sub commander seemed a little awed as he got a small book and read from it: "Do you, Max Wyman, solemnly renounce all allegiances previously held by you and pledge your allegiance to the North American Government?" "I do," the young man said fiercely. In a remote corner of his mind, for the first time in months, the bell ceased to ring, the pendulum to beat and the light to flash. Charles Orsino knew again who he was and what was his mission. VII It had begun when the girl led him through the conference room door. Naturally one had misgivings; naturally one didn't speak up. But the vault-like door far downstairs was terrifying when it yawned before you and even more so when it closed behind you. "What is this place?" he demanded at last. "Who are you?" She said: "Psychology lab." It produced on him the same effect that "alchemy section" or "Division of astrology" would have on a well-informed young man in 1950. He repeated flatly: "Psychology lab. If you don't want to tell me, very well. I volunteered without strings." Which should remind her that he was a sort of hero and should be treated with a certain amount of dignity and that she could save her corny jokes. "I meant it," she said, fiddling busily with the locks of yet another vault-like door. "I'm a psychologist. I'm also by the way, Lee Falcaro--since you asked." "The old man--Edward Falcaro's line?" he asked. "Simon pure. He's my father's brother. Father's down in Miami, handling the tracks and gaming in general." The second big door opened on a brain-gray room whose air had a curiously dead feel to it. "Sit down," she said, indicating a very unorthodox chair. He did, and found that the chair was the most comfortable piece of furniture he had ever known. Its contact with his body was so complete that it pressed nowhere, it poked nowhere. The girl studied dials in its back nevertheless and muttered something about adjusting it. He protested.