"Laurie!" I said sharply. "How long ago was it? When did it happen?"
Her lips moved soundlessly. She began to shake again, to vibrate like an animal too terrified to run.
"Who did it, Laurie? Who made you call me? Who wanted you to kill me?"
I knew it was hopeless to question her even as my hands gripped her shoulders and shook her. She couldn't answer. In a deep state of shock, exuding fear, she could hardly be aware of what I asked. But I didn't need her reply. I already knew.
And I felt the anger growing in me, active and violent, a deep revulsion and a raging hatred for the alien things to whom human beings were simply inferior organisms to be possessed and used, discarded or destroyed. Looking down at Laurie, at this young and slim and beautiful woman, at the vivid red hair spilling over white quivering shoulders, I knew that what I felt for her was not love but something equally important, sympathy and compassion and a strong affection that could easily, under other circumstances, erupt into desire and need. I felt linked with her in a common humanity and a common anger.
And I hated what I had to do to her.
I picked up the small pistol which had fallen from her fingers. For a moment I was tempted to discard the plan which had formed itself in my mind. Perhaps it wouldn't be necessary. Perhaps I could squeeze the trigger myself before my finger froze in the paralysis of obedience.
No. There was only one slim chance. It might fail but I had to risk it. I had to try to turn the alien's own weapon against it.
"Laurie," I said gently. "Listen to me."
I spoke to her then without words.