"If there's a possibility, maybe we shouldn't talk so damned much." Hank rose to his feet, frowning. "If you're right, they may have hidden microphones." "What's the difference?" If they were prisoners, Murphy thought, there was no reason to keep the Antarians from knowing that they knew. There would be no chance to escape, no way out. Antarians took their prisoners far behind their lines. A man, a creature who walked upright on two legs, could not disguise himself and pass unnoticed among creatures that resembled lizards and crawled on four legs. No, if they were prisoners they would be well behind the lines; there would be no way to escape. _But_, he wondered, _if we're prisoners, why are they trying to keep us from realizing it?_ They had used a trick to get information, but they could have gotten the same information through torture. He knew: he was brave enough to die for his country, but not strong enough to-- _What's wrong with this compartment?_ he interrupted the chain of thought. There was _something_ wrong with the compartment. He could sense the wrongness. But what could be wrong with cots, a table, four walls, a ceiling, and a floor? There was nothing wrong with them, so that meant there was something wrong that was not in the compartment; a something that came in to the compartment from outside. _What_, he thought wildly, _is not in here but comes in here from outside?_ "_I've got it!_" Hank jumped, startled. "What?" "Vibrations," Murphy said. "There aren't any!" Hank shrugged his shoulders. "It's important," Murphy said. "Remember the troopship that took us to Antares? I remember I had trouble sleeping because of the vibrations. Every ship has vibrations. The engines kick up one hell of a fuss and the vibrations travel all over the ship. Not so bad in some places, but you can feel them anywhere." He pressed his hands against a wall. Hank, some of the color draining from his face, did the same. "See?" Murphy inquired. "There are no vibrations. We're supposed to be in outer space, headed for Earth. _There should be vibrations!_" He hit the wall with his fist. He hit it harder. The wall didn't sound _right_. Taking his bayonet, he jabbed the wall. The blade cut through a thin layer of metal--a layer of metal no thicker than a sixteenth of an inch. Laughing wildly, he cut a large rectangle; the section clattered to the floor, exposing a layer of wood. He kicked at the wood--dry, crumbling wood that gave way beneath his foot. He climbed through the opening. Hank followed him. * * * * *