Hector’s head was buzzing. He couldn’t get his eyes open all the way. He seemed to be in a tiny unlit cubicle, metal-walled. with a blank viewscreen staring at him. Something was on his head, something else strapped around his chest. He couldn’t see his hands; they were down on his lap and his head wouldn’t move far enough to look at them. Nor would his hands move, despite his will.
He heard voices. Whether they were outside the cubicle or inside his head, he couldn’t tell.
“What do you mean, nothing? He must have some thoughts in his head!”
“Yes, Minister Kor, there are. But they are so random, so pattemless … I’ve never examined a brain like his. I don’t see how he can walk straight, let alone think.”
“He is a natural telepath,” Kor’s harsh voice countered. “Perhaps he’s hiding his true thought patterns from you.”
“Under the influence of the massive drug doses we’ve given him? Impossible.”
‘The drugs might not affect him.”
“No, that couldn’t be. His physical condition shows that the drugs have stupefied him almost completely.”
A new voice piped up. “The monitor shows that the drugs are wearing off; he’s beginning to regain consciousness.”
“Dose him again,” Kor ordered.
“More drugs? The effect could be dangerous . . . even fatal.”
“Must I repeat myself? The Watchman is a natural telepath. If he regains nil! consciousness inside the dueling machine, he can disappear at will. The consequences of that will be fatal … to you!”
Hector tried to open his eyes fully, but the lids felt gummy, as though they’d been glued together. Inside the dueling machine! If I can get myself together before they put me under again…. His hands weighed two hundred kilos apiece, and he still couldn’t move his head. But through his half-open eyes he could see that the viewscreen was softly glowing, even though blank. The machine was on. They’ve been trying to pick my brain, he realized.