All at once she lost the entire image in a flash of worry, confusion and finally frustration. Yet her headache persisted, grew worse, and she got a definite impression that Revere was dying, that Rolf was mercilessly goading him on to destruction. Outraged, she tried to key furious thoughts in Rolf's direction—but so greatly was she herself suffering that she was unable to focus her powers.
Then, abruptly, the agony was over. Whatever had happened was finished, done with. Lynne sat up on her bed, feeling limp and sore all over, as if she had taken a physical beating. She ran an acti-comb through her blond hair, freshened up her looks generally, though she felt like the proverbial wrath of Satan, went out to the recreation room. At the moment she needed human company.
Through a window she saw that the sun was low in the west, looked in awe at the brilliant colors of the Martian sunset. Thanks to the thinner atmosphere and its high impregnation of dust, the brilliance far exceeded anything on Earth, even though the sun looked far-away and cold.
Someone offered her a colafizz, which she accepted gratefully. She tried to reach Revere but got only a wall of blankness. He was either unconscious—or dead, she decided. She didn't know whether to be relieved or grief-stricken at the prospect. True, Revere was her identical twin—yet she barely knew him, had no real close ties.
Then Lao appeared and under the artificial lighting of the chemilamps, Lynne was surprised to note how tired the Eurasio-Martian girl looked. She appeared thin enough to be blown away by the first breeze and there were deep purple circles under her slightly tilted black almond-eyes—yet the fingers that gripped her skinless cigarette were rock-steady.
She said, "They've done something to Revere, haven't they?"
"I think so," Lynne replied. "How did you know?"
"I felt it—until just lately," said Lao. "Most of us are somewhat telepathic on Mars. In moments of emotional stress especially."
"I'm not sure what's happened," Lynne told her. "They were trying to get him to record the shape of the invaders on a grid."
Lao's already pale face turned ashy-white. She whispered, "I knew it! They've used the necro-recorder on him."