The Lady Loala, reading this in his eyes, smiled and stirred with languorous assurance. She whispered softly:
"You found me attractive before, Steve. And now—?"
But deep within Stephen Duane stirred a memory ... the haunting recollection of another woman, one whose hair was a cascade of flowing gold, whose body was pearl and ivory. A girl whose lips had warmed beneath his own. And—Treatment be damned—this Duane was still the dominant of Steve's new schizophrenic character.
And this, realized Duane suddenly, was to his advantage! Never, now, would the Daans dream that he was other than that which he pretended to be: a convert to their ideology. He was in possession of their lore, their secrets—and still free agent to do as he willed!
How this might be, he could not say. Perhaps because the machine which gave the Treatment was set to establish dominion over barbarians of lesser mind ... perhaps because his Twentieth Century brain was somehow differently formed than the evolved brains of men fifteen hundred years removed. But the Treatment, somehow, had failed its complete purpose.
With this realization came the second realization that never must he allow the Daans to suspect his freedom of mind. They considered him now one of Them; he must foster this belief. So—
He stirred forward as though impelled by a restless urgency almost beyond endurance. And, "Need I tell you, O Loala!" he murmured vibrantly. "Need my lips speak—?"
And Loala was, indeed, a true daughter of her sex. Pursuer herself but a short while ago, now she took delight in becoming the pursued, and her withdrawal was purely feminine.
"Not now, Steve," she warded him off, "but later—when you have completed your task. Yes, I am convinced. But be swift, my human, and return to me. And perform your task faithfully and well, remembering the fate which befalls those Brothers who fail."
"Fate?" repeated Steve.