There was no particular sequence to the flood of realizations that rushed my consciousness next and left me feeling weak and shaky. The desk sergeant had said ten minutes. The policeman had gotten there in less than five. We were driving, not through side streets toward a police station, but along a high-speed lane of a main thoroughfare, away from the city. Two dogs had yapped at my heels. The "police" vehicle was unmarked--unusual if not illegal. When I looked at the driver, he was not, of course, a policeman. He was one of Grogan's bodyguards--the one into whose arms I had thrown Maxwell not long ago. He was staring straight ahead at the road, his spread-nosed face composed. He hadn't noticed anything. I took a deep breath and leaned back again, half-closing my eyes. But I did not relax. The clicking of the defense mech seemed thunderous to me, but if the driver heard it, he gave no indication. Perhaps it would have meant nothing to him if he did hear it. I tried to think of the problem at hand, but my mind refused to cooperate. It kept rushing back to events of the recent past and demanding reasons and explanations. When the defense mech faltered and quietly stopped clicking, I was aware of it this time. My first impulse was to hit it with my hand and try to make it work again, but I restrained myself. I controlled my thoughts firmly, holding them tight and shaping them carefully in my mind before letting them go. The driver was again a policeman in the gray police uniform. We were once more driving slowly through city streets instead of speeding along a highway. Two dogs ran beside the auto, barking--the same two dogs that I had shooed before I closed the door. I formed my thoughts: _I know who you are. It's no secret any more. But why? What are you trying to do?_ There was no reply. It could mean one of two things. Either he simply didn't want to answer, or else he wasn't on the machine in person but was playing an impression-tape on my wave-band. I tried again. _You're licked, you know. Already you're licked. Even if my call to Newell was nothing but a telenosis dream--even if no one knows anything about this but me, you're still licked--_ * * * * * No reply. None of any kind. I'd expected at least to get a sinister chuckle, or a flood of horrors. But there was nothing more nor less than what there had been--the policeman driving through quiet city streets, and the dogs barking. Then it was just a recording, prepared in advance. My mind was not being followed in person. Not right now. But that was no help and no assurance. I still didn't dare get out of the car. Or knock the driver over the head and take over the car myself. At ninety miles an hour, and with a visual impression of moving slowly along city streets, that would be a sure form of suicide. Or would it?