Alan drank obediently, and stood and followed Brave into the lab. In a cleared space stood a pair of machines, looking somewhat like giant cameras, the lens of one covered by a multicolored disk, that of the other unshaded; there were plastic charts bolted to the sides, and dials and several types of indicator, and among all these the distinctive green and gold seal of the Institute of Psychotherapeutic and Hypnotherapeutic Research.
Alan balked. "Hold on, Brave! You aren't going—"
"You said you trust me. Do it now if never again. Sit down."
"No!" he shouted. He was not quite sure of his reasons, but he knew he must not be hypnotized.
Brave moved to shut him off from the door. "You'll sit there if I have to knock you out, boss."
Alan saw he was not joking. He said, "Where did you get the machines, Brave?"
"Had 'em around for years. I've always been intrigued by hypnosis, you know that. In fact you knew I had the machines. Will you sit down?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Damn it, you're sparring for time. If you think—"
Alan swung on him without warning, a lashing buffet that could have broken a lesser man's neck; Brave took it square on the side of his jaw and staggered back, shaking his head. Then he caught Alan's coat as the smaller man leaped for the door. He swept him around by the coat like a yo-yo on a string, and judging his blow as carefully and dispassionately as an old champion measures an upstart contender, he rammed his big fist into Alan's belly just below the ribs. It jolted Alan back and doubled him over and made him blind with agony. He could not breathe. There was no air left in his lungs and he could not suck any into them. He was going to die. He wanted to die. He was dying.