"Seven," said Peter.
"Ten," said the mercenary, "and you have one more caper coming."
"Ten," agreed Peter Hawley, "and you look the other way when I take the lid off."
"Still got it," said Buregarde, sniffing at the closed door but keeping one eye on the disappearing mercenary and his prisoner.
"I've got it, too. Still fright and concern: fear of harm, concern over what happens next."
"Strong?"
"Definitely," said Peter closing his eyes and holding his breath.
"Nothing measurable?" asked the dog after a full minute.
"No. Too bad I was never introduced to her. I have no idea of her strength of mind—wait!" Another minute went by in personal silence; Peter Hawley's concentration far too deep to be disturbed by the sounds of the city's spaceport slum by night. The dog backed away from the door and took an alert position to guard Peter while the man was immersed in his own mind. Finally Peter alerted and shook his head sadly. "I thought for a moment that she'd caught me. A fleeting thought of rescue or escape, concept of freedom, flight, safety. But wish-thinking. Not communication. Let's go in."