"I hate you," Steve said quietly.
Silence.
"I hate you." He thought it now, thought it with all his being—and somehow he could sense the thought was being reinforced as scores of men concentrated on it around the city. The mind within him stirred sluggishly, but he pushed it under again. Hate, hate, hate.
Hadn't the creature said it could kill them both? A gamble. Everything was a gamble. Naturally the parasite would say that.
Steve began to sweat, physically. He was weak and the muscles of his arms and legs trembled. His mind found the strange telepathic channel of the parasite, traveled inward along it—with hatred. That, at least, was easy. He did hate the creature so thoroughly and so completely that the feeling pushed everything else from his mind.
A concert of hatred, all over the city. And slumbering masters who might or might not awaken.
"Stop!" A clarion command inside his skull. The parasite was fighting back.
Steve tumbled to the floor, lay there writhing. Two minds fought for control of his body, and he was being pushed back and out of control. He got to his feet stiffly, strode to a cabinet, took out a knife. He stared at the knife, fascinated, pointed it toward his chest.
"One of us must die, human, but it shall not be I!"
He drove the knife inward, slowly, an inch at a time toward his chest. He felt the point sting, saw a thin trickle of blood. For a moment, he fought to possess his arms and the knife with them. That was a mistake—almost, a fatal one.