Paralysis guns. And full blast. Greg swallowed. They meant business. And without even a formal enquiry!
Drakeson said in a whisper. "What are we going to do?"
Greg didn't know. How could they think he was psycho?
Drakeson licked his lips. "I don't want to go under the brain-probers, Greg. Nobody does. I don't want to be re-conditioned. I want to stay like I am. I'm not psycho. And they'll brain-probe us sure if we don't turn around and go back. And even if we do—"
The audio's cold impersonal voice said:
"This is the last order. The neuro-guns are ready to fire."
Greg's mind ran in mad circles. He tried to think. He felt Drakeson move, and then he saw Drakeson's hand with that infernal injection solution jiggling around in a big hypodermic syringe.
"I've just given myself another shot, Greg. You'd better have another right now. If we land down there we'll need all the adrenolex we can get."
Greg hardly felt the injection as he tried to think, clarify his situation. I'm not psycho, he thought desperately. I'm doing something a little bit different, but it isn't psychosis.
But good integrated citizens would not fight against the orders from Control. All right. He would submit to brain-probing. But he'd get Pat out of that trap she was in first. He might be able to talk her out of it if he could get to her personally, be with her a while. The Controllers certainly couldn't. They'd drive her away into space as soon as she saw them.