And he knew one thing. It had to be illusion. Damn it, Owners or not, no matter what the hell they were, it had to be illusion!
Cragin had never felt shaken through to the inside of him before. Fear and awe had been banished from the minds of men for five centuries. Yet he felt as though he were staggering blindly, and he knew he was helpless.
The pin-point had become a searing, blinding thing, and even as he shielded his eyes, it filled the screen. They were going into it.
Into it.
Into a live star.
No, was the only word he could think. No.
NO!
He spun away, wrenching the telescreen off as he did so.
But nothing changed, and he did not die. Somehow, there was no change at all.
He sat upright, rigid, as though self-hypnotized for what could have been hours or minutes. And there was no change, no awful, searing wave of white heat, no last instant of torture before death.