He went in.
The door creaked shut behind him. A tiny air purifier made sighings somewhere like a big dog with asthma. There was a bare metal table. And that was all. A door led into another room. He walked into it. Silence, save for the moan of the deathless wind, crying outside.
It was dark in the room, with only the light of Deimos and Phobos shining into the glassite windows. He could just make out the darkness-shrouded bulks of shattered machinery in the corner. He pressed the button on his torch and the darkness fled in panic from the brightness of the light.
The whisper in his brain came then. "Don't...."
His flashlight clattered to the metal floor, and his hand was on his blaster. Then he cursed himself for a fool and retrieved his torch. He did not, however, turn it on again.
To be startled like that by mental telepathy was childish. It was something that every member of the Space Patrol had to master, and was an ability fairly common among intelligent people—many of whom practiced the art as something of a hobby. The only element of surprise was the fact that it was a strain on any ordinary man to project his thoughts that way, and speech was preferable when practicable. Still, there was no reason why anyone should not use telepathy if he wished.
"Who—" he began aloud, then shrugged and concentrated on thinking: "Who are you?"
"Speak aloud," came the thought. "It is easier for you, and makes your mental impulses clearer."
There is an individuality in thoughts, as well as in voices and faces. It occurred to Lawrence that the thought waves of this person were the clearest, the gentlest and the saddest of any he had ever encountered.