Presently, a semblance of calm restored, she found the light control, tuned it for a low yellow, and returned to the bottle she had left on the deck. More of that? She had visions of herself reduced to Ferry’s condition. No! There had to be a better way. She recapped the bottle, stuffed it in a locker, and sat on her mat, feet stretched out straight.

What to do?

Her gaze fell on her reflection in the mirror beside her hatch and what she saw made her groan. She liked her body—the suppleness, the firmness. To men, it appeared intensely female and soft, an illusion attributable to large breasts. But even her breasts were firm to touch, toned by a rigorous physical program which few besides herself and Oakes knew she enjoyed. Now, though, she saw red marks across her stomach, down one arm—the beginnings of softness down her thighs where there were more red streaks from her nightmare struggle with the hammock.

She held up her left hand and stared at it. The fingers ached. In that slender arm and those fingers she held the strength of five men. She had discovered this early and, afraid it would mean a life of body-work instead of mind-work, she had concealed this genetic gift. But she could not hide from what the mirror showed—the shambles she had made of her hammock and the marks on her flesh.

What to do?

She refused to go back to the wine. Sweat was beginning to cool on her skin. Her thick hair was stuck to her face and neck—damp dark at the ends. She no longer felt perspiration trickle down the small of her back.

Her green eyes stared back at her from the mirror and pried into her like Oakes’ spying sensors.

Damn him!

She closed her eyes in a grimace. There had to be some way of breaking through the memory barrier! What happened to me?

Scream Room.

She spoke it aloud: “Scream Room.”

Jessup’s terrible fingers kneaded her neck, her back.

Abruptly, images began to rush through her mind like a storm. Bits and shards at first: a glimpse of a face here, an agony there. Writhings and couplings. There was a rainbow of sad clones mounting each other, always sweating, their freak organs slick, waving . . .

I took none of them!

Her terrible strength had stunned the clones.

Blood! She saw blood on her arms.

But I did not join them! None of it! She knew it. And because she knew it, there was a new strength in her. An objectifying freedom glared from her eyes when she stared once more into the mirror.

The holorecord!

Oakes had offered to play it for her, amusement in his eyes . . . and something else there . . . a fearful watching. She had refused.

“No-o-o. Perhaps some other time.”

And her stomach was a knot of terror.