"I heard what you said, Doctor Smithson, or at least part of it," he remarked quietly in a soft musical voice. "I am Zingar. Some of us younger ones think the old men are too fearful—I wish I could go back to Earth with you and assist your struggling medical men."
John paged through the book hurriedly, hunting for words.
"Just a moment," interrupted the young stranger. He stepped to the wall and tapped a code sign. At his feet a slit opened and a dark gray, complicated machine slid into the room.
"That's one of them things they hitched to my head," said Jake excitedly.
Zingar drew out a cord from the gray machine, with a small black disk at the end, and laid it against the side of John's head, where it remained as if glued.
"Now think what you wish to say, and I will know the essence of your meaning," remarked Zingar. "It will not convey words or technical matter but blurred pictures of experience. I will ask questions to guide your memory. And if you will think aloud it may help as I already have memorized much of your spoken language."
John tried to think coherently, but, under his conscious sentences when he spoke aloud was a flickering jumble of excitement, ideas for escape, thoughts of Hilda as he looked at her, memories of their recent conversations with Senegar.
"Relax, young man," ordered the Martian youth, "I find it difficult to receive. This device only registers your subvocal thoughts. Your mind is like a kaleidoscope at present. Try not to think of the young lady."
Hilda drew in her breath quickly and blushed.