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from a Screamer’s agonized mind.
    Yet, Manuel seemed to be telling him not to be afraid, for the shadow of isolated ignorance was crumbling before the searing light of truth and soon all the strangenesses would be familiar. And again and again, as though with shouted impact, came the word symbols zylph and rault. But they were concepts utterly without meaning, provocative, shards of semantic nothingness.
*  *  *
    An almost unfamiliar calm settled over Gregson’s threshing thoughts and he convinced himself that the parapsychological contact with Manuel had all been a fantasy.
    Or had it? The bridge of empathy that he had occasionally experienced—could it span billions of miles? Or was it possible that his brother was somewhere on Earth, perhaps the captive of a creature such as the one he had just confronted in the deserted alleyway?
    Recollection of the victorious Valorian brought his head abruptly off the pillow and he stared up into Wellford’s face just as the latter’s concerned expression was being supplanted by a grin.
    “Welcome back to the ranks of the pre-Screamers,” the Englishman greeted. “Although we had a deuce of a time convincing the Pickup Squad that you were the victim of some sort of skulduggery. You came fairly close to winding up in an isolation institute, you know.”
    Gregson saw that he was in the Secretariat Building’s infirmary. “What happened?”
    “I rather hoped you’d be able to tell us that.”
    “I… I had him. But somehow he made me inject myself.”
    “We surmised as much. Crafty affair, this human-Valorian thing.”
    Wellford herded a shock of blond hair back into place along his precise part, then called attention to the livid puffiness beneath his left eye.
    “Crafty and capable,” he added pointedly. “The one you selected for me to chase didn’t quite go along with the Marquis of Queensberry rules.”
    “So we both came back empty-handed?”
    “Indeed not. I had mine quite full—until the Guardsmen relieved me of my burden.”
    Gregson bounded from the cot. “You mean we have him—here?”
    Wellford nodded. “Radcliff and his special interrogators have been giving him a good going over for a couple of hours now. As a matter of fact, I just got buzzed by the director. He wants to see us in his office as soon as you’ve restored starch to your legs.”
    Long after Gregson and Wellford had drawn up before his desk and recounted their experiences of the chase, Security Bureau Director Radcliff continued to pace before his window overlooking the East River. His face was creased with concern.
    Finally he said, “You’re to be commended for a good job.”
    “But—” Gregson began apologetically.
    “I know. The Valorian escaped. But don’t feel badly about that. I’m sure your report will fill in broad gaps in our data on the aliens. Only this morning an almost identical incident was reported in Bavaria. But the agent in that case somehow turned a laser pistol on himself instead. So, you see, you were lucky.”
    “What have we learned from our prisoner?”
    “Not very much thus far, I’m afraid. He went incoherent during questioning. It’s almost as though he had been conditioned to react irrationally under such circumstances.”
    “May we have a shot at him?” Wellford inquired.
    Radcliff shook his head. “He’s no longer here. I thought it wise to set up undisclosed detention facilities for whatever prisoners we happen to take.”
    “But,” the Englishman protested, “we’re quite curious. And we think we’re entitled to whatever information is acquired, inasmuch as it will doubtless help us along…”
    “True. And as soon as we can squeeze some rational pattern or even some useful information out of our collective effort, we’ll pass it promptly along. Meanwhile, perhaps you’d care to hear some of what your captive had to say.”
    He crossed over to a recorder on his desk. “I’ll spot-play portions of the stuff and remind you that