"Well, then, do you intend to kill us all?"
"We do not desire to end life. It is enough for us if we hold your minds so that we will know you will do no harm."
Lucky had a quick vision (his own? implanted?) of a race of men on Venus living and moving under the direction of the dominant natives, gradually being cut off from all connection with Earth, the generations growing more and more into complacent mental slaves.
He said, in words whose confidence he did not entirely fel, "Men cannot allow themselves to be controlled mentally."
"It is the only way, and you must help us."
"We will not."
"You have no choice. You must tell us of these lands beyond the sky, of the organization of your people, of what they will do against us, and how we may guard ourselves."
"There is no way you can make me do that"
"Is there not?" asked the voice. "Consider, then. If you will not speak the information we require, we will then ask vou to descend back into the ocean in your machine of shining metal, and there at the bottom you will open your machine to the waters."
"And die?" said Lucky grimly.
"The end of your lives would be necessary. With your knowledge it would not be safe to allow you to mingle with your fellows. You might speak to them and cause them to attempt reprisals. That would not be good."
"Then I have nothing to lose by not telling you."
"You have much to lose. Should you refuse what we ask, we would have to delve into your mind by force. That is not efficient. We might miss much of value. To diminish that danger, we would have to take your mind apart bit by bit, and that would be unpleasant for you. It would be much better for us and for you if you were to help us freely."
"No." Lucky shook his head.
A pause. The voice began again: "Although your people are given to ending life, they fear having their own lives end. We will spare you that fear if you help us. When you descend into the ocean to your life's end, we will remove fear from your mind. If, however, you do not choose to help us, we will force you into life's end anyhow, but we will not remove fear. We will intensify it."
"No," said Lucky, more loudly.
Another pause, a longer one. Then the voice said, "We do not ask your knowledge out of fear for our own safety, but to make it unnecessary for ourselves to take measures of an unpleasant nature. If we are left with but uncertain knowledge as to how to guard ourselves against your people from the other side of the sky, then we will be forced to put an end to the threat by ending life for all your people on this world. We will let the ocean into their cities as we have already almost done to one of them. Life will end for your people like the quenching of a flame. It will be snuffed out, and life will burn no more."
Lucky laughed wildly. "Make me!" he said.
"Make you?"
"Make me speak. Make me dive the ship. Make me do anything."
"You think we cannot?"
"I know you cannot."
"Look about you, then, and see what we have already accomplished. Your fellow creature who is bound is in our hands. Your fellow creature who stood at your side is in our hands."
Lucky whirled. In all this time, through all this conversation, he had not heard Bigman's voice once. It was as though he had completely forgotten Bigman's existence. And now he saw the little Martian lying twisted and crumpled at his feet.
Lucky dropped to his knees, a vast and fearful dismay parching his throat. "You've killed him?"
"No, he lives. He is not even badly hurt. But, you see, you are alone now. You have none to help you now. They could not withstand us, and neither can you."
White-faced, Lucky said, "No. You will not make me do anything."
"One last chance. Make your choice. Do you choose to help us, so that life may end peacefully and quietly for you? Or will you refuse to help us, so that it must end in pain and sorrow, to be followed, perhaps, by life's end for all your people in the cities below the ocean? Which is it to be? Come, your answer!"
The words echoed and re-echoed within Lucky's mind as he prepared to stand, alone and unfriended, against the buffets of a mental power he did not know how to fight save by an unbending stubbornness of will.
14. Minds Battle
How does one set up A barrier against mental attack? Lucky had the desire to resist, but there were no muscles he could flex, no guard he could throw up, no way he could return violence. He must merely remain as he was, resisting all those impulses that flooded his mind which he could not surely tell to be his own.
And how could he tell which were his own? What did he himself wish to do? What did he himself wish most to do?
Nothing entered his mind. It was blank. Surely there had to be something. He had not come up here without a plan.
Up here?
Then he had come up. Originally, he had been down.
Far down in the recesses of his mind, he thought, That's it.
He was in a ship. It had come up from the sea bottom. It was on the surface of the water now. Good. What next?
Why at the surface? Dimly he could remember it was safer underneath.
He bent his head with great difficulty, closed his eyes and opened them again. His thoughts were very thick.
He had to get word somewhere… somewhere… about something.
He had to get word.
Get word.
And he broke through! It was as though somewhere miles inside of himself he had put a straining shoulder to a door and it had burst open. There was a clear flash of purpose, and he remembered something he had forgotten.
Ship's radio and the space station, of course.
He said, huskily, "You haven't got me. Do you hear that? I remember, and I'll keep on remembering."
There was no answer.
He shouted aloud, incoherently. His mind was faintly occupied with the analogy of a man fighting an overdose of a sleeping drug. Keep the muscles active, he thought. Keep walking. Keep walking.
In his case, he had to keep his mind active, he had to keep the mental fibers working. Do something. Do something. Stop, and they'll get you.
He continued shouting, and sound became words, "I'll do-it. I'll do it." Do what? He could feel it slipping from him again.
Feverishly, he repeated to himself, "Radio to station… radio to station…" but the sounds were becoming meaningless.
He was moving now. His body turned clumsily as though his joints were wood and nailed in place, but it was turning. He faced the radio. He saw it clearly for a moment, then it wavered and became foggy. He bent his mind to the task, and it was clear again. He could see the transmitter, see the range-setting toggle and the frequency condensers. He could recall and understand its workings.
He took a dragging step toward it and a sensation as of red-hot spikes boring into his temples overwhelmed him.
He staggered and fell to his knees, then, in agony, rose again.
Through pain-hazed eyes, he could still make out the radio. First one of his legs moved, then another.
The radio seemed a hundred yards away, hazy, surrounded by a bloody mist. The pounding in Lucky's head increased with each step.
He fought to ignore the pain, to see only the radio, to think only of the radio. He forced his legs to move against a rubbery resistance that was entangling them and dragging him down.
Finally, he put out his arm, and when his fingers were still six inches away from the ultrawave, Lucky knew that his endurance was at an end. Try as he might, he could drive his exhausted body no closer. It was all over. It was ended.
The Hilda was a scene of paralysis. Evans lay unconscious on his cot; Bigman was crumpled on the floor; and though Lucky remained stubbornly upright, his trembling fingertips were the only sign of life in him.