You wouldn't have hit the combination by random chance in a long time even if you'd been playing games on the board, and in your shoes I don't imagine you felt much like doing that." Barton's ego pulled its socks up a little.

"So how did you find it?"

"Well, Mr. Barton, you know we've been interrogating Hishtoo, the bigger crawdaddy, with that poor devil Siewen interpreting. Some of our other people are trying to learn the Demu language so we can work faster, but so far they're getting nowhere fast." So the Director's name was Hishtoo; how about that? Or something that sounded like Hishtoo. "Well, when we asked where the devil the tech manuals were for this beast here, he got cagey and wouldn't talk. So Mr. Tarleton put a hammer- lock on him and leaned on it and said something about crab salad, and Hishtoo began talking and just plain wouldn't stop." Barton grinned, not a nice grin. So Tarle- ton had paid attention to his report-the early version -after alt Crab salad, yetl

"Well, good on Tarleton," was all he said. "Stick with it; you're doing great." He wandered around a little and decided to go back to his quarters. There was DO vehi- cle handy, so he walked it. Sweating in the hot sun felt good, for a change.

Back at the quarters he hesitated, hating to enter.

Limila seldom spoke to him lately except in answer to a direct question; her silent withdrawal was hard to take.

He supposed she responded to the interrogations of the data-gathering team, or someone would have told him what the problem was. He shrugged and went inside.

He didn't see or hear Limila at first. The tri-V was blaring; he turned the sound low. Then he heard her, in her own bedroom. He opened the door a few inches and saw her as well. Curled into a tight ball in the middle of her bed, she was crying in great racking sobs. After a moment he shook bis head, closed the door gently and turned away. There was nothing he could do.

He poured himself the stiffest damn drink he could manage, and watched the stupidities of tri-V. The 3-D picture was new to him, but the content of the medium hadn't improved a bit in eight years, or since he could remember, in fact. If anything, it was getting worse. Or maybe it was he who was getting worse .. .

Barton opened a package of tri-V-advertised pre-

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pared food, heated it and ate it The taste, when he no- ticed it, was about like that of a well-composted pile of mulch.

Returning to his drink and ignoring the tri-V, Barton ran in bis own head the ultimate tri-V commercial he could imagine.

"Buy Musbie-Tushies," it went, "the truly effort-free food! Mushie-Tushies are pre-cooked, pre-chewed, pre- swallowed, pre-digested and pre-excretedl Just heat them up and throw them down the toiletl" Barton fin- ished his drink, turned off the tri-V, and went to his own bed. He caught himself short of slamming the bedroom door; Umila might be asleep. Whether she was or not, the thought of her kept Barton awake another hour, not pleasantly.

Next morning he was at Dr. Fox's office at nine sharp, as agreed. Not one second late; that was his commitment to her. Not more than five seconds early; that was his commitment to himself. Nine sharp, as nearly as he could manage.

Dr. Fox smiled continually. Barton didn't listen closely to what she said or to what he answered; it was small talk and not relevant. Bla-bla-bia, she said in polite tones. Bla-bla-indeed, he answered gravely, equally po- lite. Maybe it even made some sort of sense.

When she got down to cases, he paid attention. First there would be a simple IQ test. Well, not a simple test, but a test simply for the measurement of his intelligence.

OK; he presumed he had some of that left and be didn't mind if they measured it.

The test was part verbal and part written, and all of it no sweat. Barton's memories, which had been suppressed and foggy early in his captivity, and spotty for nearly all of it. had begun coming back more rapidly since his es- cape. He and Tarleton had discussed the phenomenon early in their acquaintance, in light of the fact that mem- ory suppression was a side-effect of the Demu uncon- sciousness weapon. The gun crew Barton had zapped when he first arrived had been pretty foggy-minded for several days afterward. And the Demu had used the gadget on Barton a number of times, while they had him.

But now his logic and memory circuits were, so far as he could tell, in reasonably good order. He breezed through the many sections of the test, not giving much of a damn how he came out on it but still giving honest an"

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swers when he could settle on any answer at all. And in most cases, he could.

The test was a long one; it was past noon when he finished and time for lunch. He and Dr. Fox said smiling bias-bias at each other while they ate, until she men- tioned that next on the agenda was a battery of personality-evaluation tests.

Barton knew what that meant. They would rate him on or off the permissible scales of Aggressive-Submissive, Masculine-Feminine, Dependent-Independent-oh yes, the whole set of categories that he could not possibly fit correctly from where he stood, after nearly eight years in a cage. What it added up to v/as'a rating of Sane- Insane. Barton knew he would flunk.

"And which tests are you using. Doctor?" he asked.

She named the series. It was unfamiliar to him, but a book of that title caught his eye, on a shelf not too far out of his reach. I think, thought Barton, it is time I had a bad attack of the clumsies.

"Could I have another cup of coffee?" he asked. Pre- creamed pre-sugared instant cr^d, but he didn't say so.

Dr. Fox poured it for him and handed him the cup.

He dropped it, spilling the liquid toward a stack of pa- pers on her desk-

His apparent effort to save the papers pushed them off the edge. He and she both dived to save them; their heads hit squarely. Barton was braced for it, so while the lady got her eyes back in focus and her Jaw back up where it belonged, he neatly'-lifted the book he wanted and tucked it down the front of his trousers. Then he helped her up, helped her pick up the papers and mop up the mess.

"Hey, I am sorry. Doctor," he said. "I guess my co- ordination still isn't what it should be." He paused. "You all right? Me, I think I'm getting a headache. You sup- pose we could put this next one off until tomorrow?"

Dr. Fox hadn't had a chance. Nine sharp? No, you'd better make that one p.m. Bla-bia, smile, see you tomor- row. Barton hoped without malice that she was too woozy to wonder how a roan could pilot and land an alien spaceship, who on solid ground couldn't keep from spilling his coffee.

He went directly home. Limila wasn't around; she was probably with the interrogation team. At the moment he felt he could use the absence of personality pressure.

f 62

Barton had to beat those goddam tests or they'd have him, for sure; he knew it. Several times since his return to Earth he'd caught himself just short of assaulting someone he found excessively annoying. With intent to commit mayhem. He knew this was not unusual in the overcrowded cultures of Earth; he also knew it was grounds for getting locked up.

Barton had been in a cage for a long time; he was not about to be locked into another one. That was what the problem was.

For starters, he took the tests honestly (he'd gambled that sample copies and grading instructions were in the book; they were). The answers he got were about what he bad expected; Barton was not safe to have at large, even to himself. Well, he'd have to chance that, the same as he*d been doing for some time. As for other people- well, he figured he'd taken his own chances long enough that it wasn't out of line for others to share them now.

He knew no one else would see it that way, though it should be obvious that anyone who did away with the Iri-V announcer, for instance, deserved a bonus ... Oh well.

Looking at the summaries of "preferred" (sane) an- swers, Barton knew he couldn't possibly memorize enough of the responses to give a reasonable picture of a man with his head on straight; it couldn't be done. But there had to be a way.

The series of tests ran to a total of over 1,300 multiple- choice questions: five choices per question. The odds against him were incalculable. But what about a random approach? Barton looked about the room.

A pair of ornamental dice sat on a low table. Barton took one die in his hand. Six choices: #1 through #5, the answers to any question on the test. #6, leave it blank.

Barton threw the die and marked the result for each of the 107 questions on the first test. Then he turned again to the Evaluations section. Hopeless.

"These results indicate either a fragmented incoherent mind or a highly irresponsible attitude. In either case there is urgent need of custody and therapy." OK, OK, he thought; I've already bagged that idea.

Barton's situation didn't need a drink, but he did. Ha mixed it about half as heavy as he really wanted it. He sat down in front of the tri-V set, thought about turning it on, then got up and carefully turned the bulky heavy

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thing around to face directly into the wall. At that point, Limila came in.

As usual she did not speak. Barton had long since quit offering unanswered greetings, though he knew he needed to talk with her and maybe vice versa. In fact she was the only person he knew that he could talk to, about a lot of things. But that problem would have to wait.

She got herself some food and took it into her bed- room, softly closing the door behind her. Barton ached, thinking of how she must feel at what had been done to her. But he shrugged it off; he had to, just then. He ranged around the place, looking for something to spark his mind toward a way to beat those damned tests and stay out of a cage. Because he wouldn't go. Not again, he wouldn't.

His eye was caught by the supply of canvases and paints in the far dimmest corner of the room. He'd asked for the materials several days ago but hadn't used them yet. Maybe it was time he did; it struck him that some- times the hands can tell the mind what it really means.

Barton arranged the easel, the canvas, the palette and brushes, the lights. He hadn't painted for eight years;