They were seizing his control centers, battering at sensory complexes. Muscles cramped spasmodically, nerves screamed in anguish, body temperature soared, ears shrilled, eyes flashed flaming reds and unbearable star bursts. Now they were going deeper, beyond the physical effects, digging, clawing away through a lifetime of selfprotective neural patterns, reaching down with a searing, white-hot, twelfth-power probe into the personality itself.
Odal heard a terrified voice howling. They’re after ME. They’re trying to get ME. Hide! Hide!
The voice was his own.
Despite its spaciousness, Leoh thought, the Prime Minister’s office was a stuffy antique of a room, decorated in blue and gold, with the weight of outmoded traditions and useless memories hanging more heavily than the gilt draperies that bordered each door and window.
The meeting had been small and unspectacular. Martine had invited Leoh for an informal chat; Hector was pointedly not invited. A dozen or so aides, politicians, and administrators clustered around the Prime Minister’s esk as he officially thanked Leoh for uncovering Kerak’s attempt to use the dueling machine as a smoke screen for their war preparations.
“It was Star Watch Lieutenant Hector who actually uncovered the plot, not me,” Leoh insisted.
Martine waved away the words impatiently. “The Watchman is merely your aide; you are the man that Kanus fears.”
After about ten minutes of talking, Martine nodded to one of his aides, who went to a door and admitted a covey of news photographers. The Prime Minister stood up and walked around his desk to stand beside Leoh, towering proudly over the old man, while the newsmen took their pictures. Then the meeting broke up. The newsmen left and everyone else began to drift out of the office.