Of a sudden, Birrel's heart pounded. Some of those words, those strange-sounding syllables, did make sense. They were words he had learned in the weeks of preparation—words that Grossman, the philologist, had beaten into him by endless repetitions.
The words—the language—of the secret ones from Someplace-else.
He wrenched his eyes open. He looked into the dark, handsome face of a young woman. Her eyes were brilliant with excitement, and her hands were shaking Birrel by the shoulders. She spoke swiftly to him again, and now his clearing mind could translate the words.
"Rett, there's little time! Please!"
"Rett?" That was a word he didn't know. But of course—that would be his name. Or, rather, the name of the man he impersonated. Rett—
Birrel was too foggy yet to try to answer, in that alien language. He was dazed, off balance, and dared not make a slip.
She helped him to his feet. His legs were like strings. He felt as though a pile-driver had hit him. What had happened?
Hanging to the edge of the bunk for support, Birrel stared groggily. He saw now that the girl wore an ordinary tan suit, with no covering on her shoulder-length black hair. Beyond her, the steel door now gaped wide open. How had it been opened? And what had struck him senseless? There had been a sudden greenishness in the light—
The light was still green, a baleful emerald tinge. He didn't understand. He looked down at himself, and found that around his neck now hung a chain from which depended an egg of silvery metal. The egg hummed.
Birrel reached numb fingers toward the thing, but the girl caught away his hand. Again in that alien tongue, she said quickly,