He turned sharp right and ran stumblingly along the ridge. Was it a trifle easier? Yes, the flashes were fainter. He ran faster and faster. The torment eased still more and a pale spectre of hope crept into his mind. And then fled. Ahead of him was the end of the ridge, a cliff, vertical and smooth. Before he could scarcely wonder if he had time to turn back, he knew he hadn't. His mind again flinched as a mental blast hit it.
There was a small cabin standing alone at the very edge of the cliff. The windows were tightly boarded and it was evidently derelict. The door hung partly open and through it the fugitive scrambled. He slammed the door shut and by force of desperation managed to shoot the rusty bolt into the hasp.
Inside he stood, wincing occasionally from a thrust into his mind, and staring dumbly and despairingly around the barren room. But it wasn't quite barren. A gleam of hope calmed his mental torture when he saw an old shirt and pair of work pants hanging from a hook in a far corner of the room. He dashed across the floor, tearing his prison garb off as he went. The dust from the old clothes almost choked him as he flung them on. He cast his hated prison garb into a dark corner and stamped on it. Then he rushed to the door.
He had his hand on the bolt, ready to shove it open, when realization finally came to him. He sank to the floor, numbed. No physical disguise could fool the mertha or the prison guards. They tracked minds, not bodies or uniforms. The dreaded mertha gnawed a man's very brain.
The flaring hope which repulsed the mertha from his mind for the brief period of action there in the cabin had gone out. Again anguish crept into his brain and contorted it. He opened his mouth to shriek, but instead tore the shirt from off his back and stuffed it into his mouth. Gagged, the poor wretch fell to the floor writhing, deprived of the slight relief that screams would have brought to the mind tormented into physical action, but too anguished to realize that screams could not be heard by his earless pursuers.
His mind was filled constantly with torment, now. He hoped and prayed for the arrival of the guards but they did not come. It beat against his brain, pound, pound, pound. In his mind was only the frantic I can't stand it, I can't stand it, I....
Later in the day Purnell was asked to go to Warden Hughes' office. He entered the room with great interest and saw the warden seated at his desk with a glum expression on his face. One of the Zirthans was standing in front of the desk, but the other one and the two mertha were not in the room.