The rest paid not the slightest attention, their pencils still working feverishly.

I was so enraged that I started pounding on the locked door. I wanted to call out to the poor devils, tell them to have done with it, to break out and fall on their tormentors…

"Don't get so worked up, Herr Rauch," I heard a calm voice beside me. It was Boltz.

"You are criminals! Look what you're doing to people. What right have you to torture them?"

He smiled his bland intellectual smile and said:

"Do you remember the myth about Ulysses? The gods offered him the choice between a long but quiet life and a short but turbulent one. He chose the latter. So did those men."

"But they were not offered any choice. It's you who aided by your pulse generator chose to stampede them toward self-annihilation for the sake of dividends!"

Boltz laughed.

"Haven't you heard them say they are happy? And so they are. Look at the way they're working in happy abandon. Does not bliss lie in creative labour?"

"I find your arguments revolting. There is a normal tempo in human life and it is criminal to try to accelerate it."

Boltz laughed again.

"You're not exactly logical, Professor. There was a time when people travelled on foot or horseback. Nowadays they fly by jet. News used to spread from mouth to mouth, taking years to snail-pace round the globe; now radio brings events right into your home even as they happen. Present-day civilisation accelerates the tempo of life artificially and you don't think it's a crime. And the host of all sorts of artificial amusements and delights, aren't they too accelerating life's tempo? So why should you consider artificial acceleration of the functions of a living organism a crime? I'm certain that these people, were they to live a natural life, would not be able to do a millionth part of what they can do now. And the meaning of life, as you know, is creative activity. You will fully appreciate that when you become one of them. Soon you will know what joy and happiness are! In fact, in two days' time. A separate room is being set up for you. You will be working.there alone, because, you will excuse my saying so, you are somewhat different from normal people."

Boltz slapped me amiably on the shoulder and left me alone to ponder his inhuman philosophy.

In accordance with my "spectre" they started my obedience training at a frequency which gave me enough will-power to achieve a feat of defiance. My first feat was easy: again I shammed loss of will-power. Kneeling down and staring ahead as vacuum-eyed as I possibly could, I repeated dully the now familiar thanksgiving balderdash. In addition a few truths about neuro-cybernetics were inculcated in me as a novice.

They boiled down to remembering which frequencies stood for what human emotions. Out of these, two were particularly important for my plans: the one stimulating mathematical thinking and another, which, luckily, was not far from the ninety-three cycles.

My training lasted for a week, after which time I was deemed obedient enough.to be put to work. The first problem I was given was analysing the possibility of intercepting an IGBM.

It took me two hours to do. The result was not cheerful for the Ministry: it couldn't be done under.the conditions indicated.

The second problem, also of a military nature, was calculating a neutron beam powerful enough to set off an enemy's nuclear war-heads. The answer was again cheerless. A neutron cannon as calculated would have to weigh several thousand tons.

It was indeed a delight for me to solve those problems and I must have looked as possessed as the other calculators, with the difference, however, that the generator, instead of making me an obedient tool, was infusing me with confidence and enthusiasm. A joyous feeling of being on top of the world did not leave me even during the sleep breaks. I pretended to sleep but in reality I was working out my plans of condign punishment.

When I was through with the Defence Ministry problems I began to solve in my mind (so that nobody would know) the problem most important for me, how to blow Kraftstudt and Co. sky-high.

I meant the phrase metaphorically, of course, having no dynamite and no chance of obtaining any in that prison-like madhouse. Anyway blasting was no part of my plan.

Since the pulse generator could stimulate any human emotion, why not try to use it, I reasoned, to rouse human dignity in its victims and make them rebel against the ex-Nazi criminals? If this were possible they would require no outside help to smash this scientifically-minded gang. But was there a way to do it? Was there a way, that is, to change the frequency stimulating mathematical thinking for one that unleashed anger and hatred in man?

The generator was operated by its aged creator, Dr. Pfaff, an able engineer but apparently with a strong sadistic streak. As he obviously delighted in the perverse way his creation was used, I could not count on any help from him. Dr. Pfaff was absolutely out. The generator had to work on the frequency I required without his help or knowledge.

Now if a pulse generator is overloaded, that is, if more power is taken off than its design allows, the frequency drops. That means that by adding an extra load in the form of a resister, a generator can be made to operate on a frequency lower than shown on the dial.

Kraftstudt and Co. exploited mathematical thinking at a frequency of 93 cycles per second. Anger is produced by 85. That meant the frequency had to be cut down by a total of eight cycles! I started calculating an extra load to do that.

During my visit to the test laboratory I had noted the readings on the voltmeter and ammeter of the generator. Their product gave me its power. Now for the mathematical problem of an extra load…

I first traced in my mind the way the gigantic condensers inside which those poor devils slaved were connected to the generator. Then, in forty minutes, I solved the pertinent Maxwell equations and did all the other, most complex calculations.

It appeared Herr Pfaff had an excess of power of only one-and-a-half watts!

This was sufficient to calculate how a frequency of ninety-three cycles could be changed to one of eighty-five. All I had to do was to earth one of the condenser-plates through a resister of 1,350 ohms.

I nearly shouted with joy. But where could I get a length of wire of that resistance? I thought next. It had to be very exact, too, or the desired effect would not be achieved.

I feverishly cast my mind about for substitutes but could think of none. A feeling of impotence swept over me when a black plastic cup suddenly appeared in my field of vision in the act of being placed on my desk by a small trembling hand. I looked up and could barely suppress an exclamation of surprise: standing in front of me was the thin girl with frightened eyes, the one who had delivered the Kraftstudt mail to me.

"What are you doing here?" I asked under my breath.

"Working," she answered, hardly moving her lips. "So you're alive."

"Yes. I need you."

Her eyes darted about.

"Everyone in town thinks you were killed. So did I."

"You go to town?"

"Yes. Almost every day, but…" I caught her tiny hand and held it In wine. "Tell everybody in town, especially at the University, I'm alive and kept here by force. Tell them this tonight. My friends here and myself must get help to get out."

There was terror in the girl's eyes. "What are you saying?" she whispered. "If Hen- Kraftstudt gets to know, and he can find out anything…" '

"How often are you interrogated?" "Next time will be the day after tomorrow." "You've got a whole day. Screw up your courage. Don't be afraid. Do as I tell you, please." The girl snatched her hand away and hurried out.

There were pencils in the black cup. Ten of them altogether, of different colours for different purposes. Mechanically I took the first that came to my hand and fingered it: it was marked "2B", a very soft pencil. It had plenty of graphite, a fair conductor. Then came "3B" and "5B" pencils, then those of the "H" range, hard ones, for copying. As I fingered them my mind seethed in a turmoil of speculation. Then all of a sudden, like a flash of lightning, I remembered the specific resistances of pencil graphites: A "5H" pencil has a resistance of 2,000 ohms. The next moment I had a "5H" pencil in my hand. The problem was Solved now not only mathematically but practically. There in my hand was a length of wood-enclosed graphite with the help of which I could bring punishment to a gang of modern barbarians.