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Eight bodies, uncomfortable and pain-wracked, floated in space, chained to tiny asteroids that drifted slowly in their orbits under the constant pull of the sun. Two of them contained minds that were locked irrevocably within prisons of their own building, sealed off forever from external stimuli, but their suffering was the greater for all that.

The other six, chained though their limbs might be, had minds that were free–free, even, of any but the most necessary of internal limitations.

Eight bodies, chained to eight lumps of pitted rock, spun endlessly in endless space.

And then the ship came.

The flare of its atomic rocket could be seen for over an hour before it reached the Penal Cluster. The six eyed it speculatively. Although only two of them were facing the proper direction to see it with their physical eyes, the impressions of those two were easily transmitted to the other four.

“Another load of captives,” whispered Juan Pedro de Cadiz. “How many this time, I wonder?”

“How long have we been here?” asked Houston, not expecting any answer.

“Who knows?” It was Lasser. “What we need out here is a clock to tell us when we’ll die.”

“Our oxygen tanks are our clocks,” said Sonali. “And they’ll notify us when the time comes.”

“I do believe you morbid-minded people are developing a sense of humor,” said Matsukuo, “but I’m not sure I care for the style too much.”

The flare of the rocket grew brighter as the decelerating ship approached the small cluster of rocks. At last the ship itself took form, shining in the eternal blaze of the sun. When the whiteness of the rocket blaze died suddenly, the ship was only a few dozen yards from Houston’s own asteroid.

And then a mental voice came into the minds of the six prisoners.

“How do you feel, Controllers?”

Only Houston recognized that thought-pattern, but his recognition was transmitted instantly to the others.

“Reinhardt!”

Hermann Reinhardt, Division Chief of the Psychodeviant Police, the one man most hated and feared by Controllers, was himself a telepath!

“Naturally,” said Reinhardt. “Someone had to take control of the situation. I was the only one who was in a position to do it.”

His thoughts were neither hard nor cold; it was almost as if he were one of them–except for one thing. Only the words of his thoughts came through; there were none of the fringe thoughts that the six were used to in each other.

“That’s true,” thought Reinhardt. “You see, we have been at this a good deal longer than you.” Then he directed his thoughts at members of the crew of the spaceship, but they could still be heard by the six prisoners. “All right, men, get those people off those rocks. We have to make room for another batch.”

The airlock in the side of the ship opened, and a dozen spacesuited men leaped out. The propulsion units in their hands guided them toward the prison asteroids.

“Give them all anaesthetic except Sager and Pederson,” Reinhardt ordered. “They won’t need it.” Then, with a note of apology, “I’m sorry we’ll have to anaesthetize you, but you’ve been in one position so long that moving you will be rather painful. We have to get you to a hospital quickly.”

The minds of the six prisoners were frantically pounding questions at the PD chief, but he gave them no answer. “No; wait until you’re better.”

The spacesuited rescuers went to the “back” of each asteroid and injected sleep-gas into the oxygen line that ran from the tank to the spacesuit of the prisoner.

Houston could smell the sweetish, pungent odor in his helmet. Just before he blacked out, he hurled one last accusing thought at Reinhardt.

“You’re the one who’s been framing Controllers!”

“Naturally, Houston,” came the answer. “How else could I get you out here?”

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