He woke. It seemed to be months later.
Dr. Phelps stood by his side.
Harrell took two or three deep breaths, clearing his head. He grinned. "I've got them," he said. "Information on troop movements, plan of battle, even the line of journey across space."
"Good work," the psychman said. "I was worried at first. You had some expressions of real terror on your face when you put the helmet on."
"Dead?"
"I'm afraid so."
Harrell grinned weakly. "I guess I was just too many for him. The shock of having the core of his mind penetrated—" Tiredly he said, "Doc, how come you didn't get me out at the half-hour mark?"
"Eh?"
"I told you to pull me out after half an hour had gone by. Why didn't you? I was in there half a day, at least—and I might have stayed there forever."
The psychman was looking at him strangely. "Half a day, you say? No, Lieutenant Harrell. The total time elapsed from the moment you donned the helmet to the instant the alien screamed—why, it was less than 10 seconds!"