its own kind. It had to be something simpler, more elemental than that.

The voice had been his own conscience crying out against treason.

He followed the probable train of circumstances if he heeded his conscience.

He would most probably be killed in this useless attack. He doubted that this was the only breeding chamber for Riders, or, that if it were, the Riders safely in human bodies couldn't transplant part of themselves and start new cultures.

If he wasn't killed, he would probably be returned to his cell, his padded cell, by Rider-ridden people.

If he were somehow let off, he would be left to wander the streets, a public ward.

The trouble with his conscience was that it wasn't logical—and it had a poor memory.

It didn't recall those three and a half years mislaid in an asylum.

Only an unprincipled—

Malloy shut it off and felt a drop of sweat running down the deep crevices between his eyebrows. My only problem, he reminded himself again and again, is how and when to expose this raid before they discover it without my help.

The solution bloomed in his mind.

It was remarkable how well the human mind could operate under stress.

He half-rose from the mud so he would be silhouetted to anybody watching, and fell back.

The guards hadn't spotted him, but he heard the Jockeys scurrying toward him through the mud.

The squishing halted near him.

He waited.

The commandos moved ahead, leaving him behind.

When he felt it was safe, Malloy took the Asphixion pad off his face—a pad without the transparent plastic coat being pulled off.

 Prev. P 16/19 next