Now Pfaff swung round to face Dane, lumpy features aglow with unholy triumph. Slowly, contemplatively, he scrubbed a meaty palm back and forth through the coarse black hair that matted the opposite forearm.
It made a whispering, scratching sort of sound that rasped Dane's nerves worse than all the earlier verbal pyrotechnics. Uneasily, he shifted; swallowed.
Because strive as he might, he still couldn't remember. Not anything.
The realization brought with it a feeling more frightening than anything he'd ever known. It was as if the world—his private world—had vanished, leaving him cast adrift in space blindfolded, without landmarks or triangulation points, all orientation lost.
The sense of helplessness that came with it was almost more than he could bear. Sheer lack of knowledge half-paralyzed him. Desperately, he wondered what he should do; how his role and true identity called for him to react.
Still gloating, Pfaff leaned back; rested his heavy hams against the doloid table. "Well, bucko?" he prodded.
With an effort, Dane held his voice steady. "I can't tell you what I don't know. All those questions—I simply don't remember."
"Nor this thing? You don't remember it, either?"
As he spoke, the Security rep picked up the Kalquoi yat-stick from the table and held it out for Dane's inspection.
Frowning, Dane studied it. A good foot long, Earth measurement, and purplish in hue, it was formed of some heavy alien metal. The basic outline was that of a slingshot crotch—a sort of handle that forked into two prongs to form a Y. But a bar across the top closed the fork, and a continuation of the handle came up to meet the bar at right angles, making a T. Bracing members from the point where the stem of the T met the crosspiece ran to the middle of each arm of the Y, then in their turn were joined into a triangle by another crosspiece.