"Yes, I thought that would be about the size of it. No- body else found anything more in the way of weapons, either. But we still haven't elimuiated the possibility of

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another of those tricky 'Enable' switches like the one for the circuit diagrams. It's a slow cautious process, checking out alt the combos on that control board.

"Anyway, they're testing the shield, all right. Took a pilot model out into space on a rocket shuttle, with all sorts of test objects and instruments and telemetering equipment inside. Now they're throwing everything at it but the kitchen sink."

"Any useful results?"

"So far. the sumbidge will take anything we know how to throw, except for coherent radiation. That goes through it like a knife through cheese."

Barton laughed. "So we just take a big-daddy laser . .."

"So big it takes up the whole central axis of one of our new ships ..."

"And ZAP1 Well, I hope it works."

"That makes a crowd of us. But we still have a prob- lem."

"Let me tell you what the problem is," thought Bar- ton. But the other man didn't say it.

"How effective is the shield against the sleep gun or vice versa?" he asked. "That's not a simple question. It's a matter of the power to the gun and the power to the shield, the distance, and the time of exposure."

"So what the hell? Test it."

"On whom. Barton? We've already used it to knock Hishtoo out once, to make sure it would work on the Demu as it does on humans. We don't dare take a chance oa scrambling his memories much; we need the hard- shelled bastard, for what information we can worm out of him."

Well, by God, there was a problem. It would take a lot of testing to get the necessary answers, and the sleep gun played hell with memory. Who was going to volunteer for a case of amnesia? Not Barton, for sure; he'd had that bit, and still he wasn't sure all his mental nuts and bolts were back in the right bins.

"Yeh, you've got a point. Lemme think a minute . . ."

There had to be answers; Barton thought of one. Some men and women were trapped in cages, permanently.

"The hopelessly insane, Tarleton. It's their memories that have them tied up in knots. The sleep gun might even cure a few. If it doesn't, they haven't lost a hell of a lot. have they?"

Tarleton looked dubious. "Pragmatically it makes

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sense, but we'll play hell trying to get authorization. A lot of people would holler bloody murder, you know."

"Federal booby hatch," said Barton. "That big one near D.C. The Agency can slap Security on the whole bucket."

"You give harsh answers, don't you? Well, it can't hurt to try, I guess. Thanks." Barton was beginning to make motions preliminary to leaving. "Oh, don't forget to check Limila on the astrogation; OK? And in a few days we'll want you to take some student pilots up in this ship. Also in the new Agency model, to show them how it goes and give us an operational comparison."

"Hell, any of your trainees could fly this thing right now."

"Yes, but they haven't done it. You have." Barton shrugged an OK, and left. Outside, he realized he hadn't said goodbye to Kreugel. Ob well; the man probably wouldn't want to be interrupted again anyway.

Over at the prefab he checked Limila's interpretation '

of the data necessary to travel from Star A to Star B. As he had expected, she had it right. He noticed that Hishtoo seemed distinctly wary of him; that reaction didn't hurt Barton's feelings. Siewen didn't say much, but seeing him gave Barton an idea: maybe, before working on Li- mila, Dr. Parr could use a trial run.

Limila wasn't needed for the rest of the day, so Barton took her with him in the jeep. He enjoyed testing its per- '

formance and handling over the bumpy dirt road, now that he had the hang of it. First he stopped by Dr.

Parr's office to make sure the doctor could see LimHa that afternoon. Then he and she went home for lunch and a shower; the day was hot. There was a note in the mail- box; Dr. Fox wanted to see Barton.

Dr. Parr had priority; they went to his office imme- diately after lunch. Although he had seen the pictures, the doctor was visibly shocked when Limila doffed the veil and hood. He hid it well but fooled no one. Quickly, though, he put his professional manner together and care- fully examined Limila's head and face, hands and feet.

He didn't ask her to disrobe; Barton remembered that Parr considered the problems of the torso to be minor.

"Your description and pictures were accurate, Barton,"

he said. "I see no reason to change the prognoses I gave , you earlier. Does she wish to proceed?"

"Hell, Doctor; ask her. She's right here in front of you, brains and all." Parr colored.

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*Tm sony, madam," he said; Barton didnt bother to correct him about Limila's marital status. "It is only that..."

"I know," said Limila. "I cannot ever get used to it, either. That is why I hope you can help me." Her eyes filled with tears. Parr was obviously shaken,

Barton cut in to display Limila's wrists and ask if any- thing could be done about the jog where the fingers had been cut back.

"Either plastic sponge or cartilage could be used to fill out a smoother line," Parr said. "Cartilage would be best but we will be using quite a lot of that elsewhere; the supply is not unlimited."

"Well, however it works out," said Barton. "Look, I think I'll leave you two to work out the details. The lady shrink wants me again. See you at home, later, Limila.

See you too. Doctor, and thanks." Handshake, pat her shoulder, and out.

Dr. Arleta Fox welcomed him smilingly. He noticed that her dark-red hair had been shortened a little and tamed a lot; it was nowhere near as frizzy as before. She wasn't a bad-looking little woman. Barton thought, if you liked strong jaws and didn't mind the implication of te- nacity.

"We'd like to do some nonverbal tests today, Mr. Bar- ton." You mean "you," lady; "we" don't want to do any- thing of the sort. But he smiled and nodded; the two of them exchanged polite bla-bla-blas on the way to the test- ing room.

The ceiling was low and gray, and Barton's guard went up. This woman had been reading the reports on him, realty reading them.

But the tests weren't too bad. First there were a num- ber of color-filled sheets of paper bearing abstract pat- terns. He was supposed to choose which he liked best, and least, out of a dozen or so groups of five each. In- evitably he was drawn to the gaudiest, most violent combinations and bored by the pastels; naturally he an- nounced the opposite choices. Dr. Fox looked dubious, but didn't say anything.

Then came the good old Rorsctiach ink blots: 'Tell me what you see in these, and tell me a story about each one, if you can, please."

Barton saw a mutilated woman dying in mindless pain.

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