Harrell-one and Harrell-three appeared. Harrell-one loosed a bombardment of mental force that shook the alien; Harrell-three dashed forward, wielding a machete.

Harrell-two and Harrell-four went into action, Harrell-two following up with a second mental bolt, Harrell-four firing a blaster. The bedeviled alien looked from side to side, not knowing where to defend himself first.

The scenery began to rock. The alien was going down.

Harrell took to the air.

Levitating easily above the jungle, he found the castle and zeroed in on it. As he dropped downward it changed—from a vaulting proud collection of spires and battlements to a blocky square building and from that into an armored box with a padlock.

The Dimellian stood before it, struggling with the five duplicate Harrells.

Harrell stepped past—through—the writhing group. The Dimellian's defenses were down. The secrets were unguarded.

He wrenched the padlock off with a contemptuous twist of his hand. The box sprang open. Inside lay documents, neatly typed, ready for his eye.

The alien uttered a mighty howl. The forest dissolved; the universe swirled around Harrell's head.

He woke. It seemed to be months later.

Dr. Phelps stood by his side.

Harrell took two or three deep breaths, clearing his head. He grinned. "I've got them," he said. "Information on troop movements, plan of battle, even the line of journey across space."

"Good work," the psychman said. "I was worried at first. You had some expressions of real terror on your face when you put the helmet on."

"Dead?"

"I'm afraid so."

Harrell grinned weakly. "I guess I was just too many for him. The shock of having the core of his mind penetrated—" Tiredly he said, "Doc, how come you didn't get me out at the half-hour mark?"

"Eh?"

"I told you to pull me out after half an hour had gone by. Why didn't you? I was in there half a day, at least—and I might have stayed there forever."

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