"Damn you, I don't remember! I don't remember!"

He grabbed van Alen roughly by the scruff of his cloak and hauled him to his feet.

"Let go of me, Dale."

The sharp command was all but impossible not to obey, but Kesley, shaking hysterically, continued to hold tight. He clutched for the Antarctican's throat, burning to choke the life out of this torturer before he could ask any more questions.

His hands touched the skin of the Antarctican's throat and then, quite coolly, van Alen broke Kesley's grip. He did it easily, simply grasping the wrists with his own long fingers and lifting.

Kesley struggled, but to no avail. The Antarctican was fantastically strong. Kesley writhed in his grip, but could not break loose. Slowly, without apparent effort, van Alen forced him to his knees and let go.

Kesley made no attempt to rise. He was beaten—physically and mentally. Van Alen stooped, lifted him, eased him to the couch. Drawing forth a scented handkerchief, he mopped perspiration first from Kesley's forehead, then from his own.

"That was unpleasant," van Alen remarked.

Kesley remained slumped on the couch. "You shouldn't have tried to attack me, Dale. I'm here to help you."

"How?" Kesley asked tonelessly.

"I'm here to show you the way back to your home."

"My home's in Kansas Province." Stubbornly.

"Your home is in Antarctica, Dale. You might as well admit it to yourself now."

Strangely, the words had little effect on Kesley. He had already been shocked past any point of surprise.

For four years, he had been persuading himself that he had come from Kansas Province. He had gone on thinking that, all the while subliminally aware that there was no rational reason for that belief, that he had no memories of his earlier life whatever.

Kansas Province had seemed as likely a homeland as any, and he had clung to the idea. As each year passed, it had 

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