"Don't ever act on that assumption, Larry." Hilton thought for minutes. "Simple peyondix, such as yours, is not enough to read the Masters' records. If I'd had three brain cells working I'd've tried them then. I wonder if I could read them?"
"You have all the old Masters' powers and more. But you must not assemble them again, sir. It would mean death."
"But I've got to know.... I've got to know! Anyway, a thousandth of a second would be enough. I don't think that'd hurt me very much."
HE concentrated—read a few feet of top-secret braided wire—and came back to consciousness in the sickbay of the Perseus, with two doctors working on him; Hastings, the top Navy medico, and Flandres, the surgeon.
"What the hell happened to you?" Flandres demanded. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"
"And if so, how?" Hastings wanted to know.
"No, I was trying not to," Hilton said, weakly, "and I guess I didn't much more than succeed."
"That was just about the closest shave I ever saw a man come through. Whatever it was, don't do it again."
"I won't," he promised, feelingly.