morass of misery. He thought of her, not as living, but as belonging to his own dead past. Something beautiful and tender that had been destroyed.
His pick slashed into the ground.
"One more score," he muttered.
When he jerked his pick loose he noticed a few green threads of moss clinging to it. With his next blow he uncovered a patch of the peculiar Jovian creeping moss. It was wiry, hardy stuff, its thin individual filaments tough as strands of steel.
"Vyers," he said tensely. An idea had struck him with the suddenness and force of a lightning bolt.
Vyers glanced up.
"Yes?"
"Will this moss conduct electricity?" his voice was strained.
Vyers shrugged.
"Maybe, maybe not. Why don't you try it?"
"I'm going to," Dirk snapped. "Listen to me. I'm going to make a pad with this stuff, shove it under my jacket. Maybe I won't be blanked out tonight. That's all I need. One night."
"You're mad!" Vyers hissed. "You'll be caught. Killed."
"Fine," Dirk's eyes glowed. "That's where I can't lose. Either way I'm better off. Want to try it with me?"
"No," Vyers said nervously. "No!"
But that evening as the line of prisoners wound past the guards there were two convicts with slightly padded right shoulders. Vyers went through first. Then Dirk stepped up. His number was bawled out, the guard's hand whacked him on the shoulder. Dirk's body stiffened to resist the customary sensation, but with a sudden wild feeling of delirium, he noticed that the usual effects were lacking. He started to step on, but the guard's command halted him, nerves quivering.
"Hold it you. What's wrong with that shoulder?"
Dirk turned slowly, feigning stupor.
"Hurt," he mumbled, "Fell on rock."
His hands curled into fists, as he watched the guard through lidded eyes. He was prepared to fight now, regardless of outcome.
The guard hesitated an instant, then waved him on.
"Don't be so damn clumsy," he shouted after him.
Dirk slouched on, careful to affect the drugged walk of the other prisoners. But his heart was pounding madly with excitement and hope.
IN THE central eating room which Dirk remembered but dimly and foggily the prisoners were unshackled. Food was set before them and soon the air was full of the sounds of greedy feeding.
Dirk kept his head over his plate pretending to eat ravenously. Guards walked back and forth behind the diners, occasionally shoving a drugged prisoner's head into the sloppy stew just to hear him grunt and strangle.
The meal was finally over. The men were led to their bunks. Dirk climbed in as did the rest. Through the meal he had not attempted to catch Vyer's eye, for one glimmer of intelligence on the part of a prisoner would be an instant give-away to the guards.
Now he waited tensely till the guttural snores of the men would cover any noise he might make, then slipped from his bunk.
Instantly a shadowy figure joined him. Vyers!
They did not speak. One iron handshake was all they needed. Then they moved as silently as wraiths through the sleeping room, into the eating room. In Dirk's mind was only one desire. And that was to feel Skarack's writhing throat under his hands.
