situations will restimulate them. One will be an interview where Flandry
has told Ammon Wayland is worthless. The other will be his telling you,
on the scene, that it is valuable. In either case, full knowledge will
return to your awareness and you can take appropriate action.”
Djana shook her head. “I’ve been … brain-channeled …
brain-burned–no,” she choked. Every detail in the room, a checkerboard
pattern on a lounger, a moving wrinkle on Rax’s face, the panels of the
inner door, stood before her with nightmare sharpness. “No, I won’t.”
“I do not speak of slave conditioning,” the other said. “That would make
you too inflexible. Besides, it takes longer than the hour or so we dare
spend. I speak of a voluntary bargain with us which includes your
submitting to a harmless cue-recall amnesia.”
Djana rose. The knees shook beneath her. “You, you, you could make a
mistake. No. I’m going. Let me out.” She reached into her purse.
She was too late. The slugthrower had appeared. She stared down its
muzzle, “If you do not cooperate tonight,” Rax told her, “you are dead.
Therefore, why not give yourself a chance to win a million credits? They
can buy you liberation from what you are.”