"Don't give it a second thought. I am Lombar's right-hand man-or he is mine, I forget which. So if we get you to trial, you do what you're told. Understand?"

"All you want me to do is accuse Heller?"

"Right."

"Any and all crimes I can think of?"

"Right!"

Gris started to come out of it. He began to see some light. "They'll realize he's the one behind all this."

"Right."

"I'll do it."

"Good. Now we've got to get you ready for your wed­ding."

Madison had to keep his smile from spreading into a triumphant grin. Gris didn't even suspect how absolutely diabolical the real plan was!

Late that afternoon, the marriage took place in the prison.

Lord Turn would not permit camera crews inside and they had to be content with what they could shoot from outside the courtyard gates.

The late afternoon sun made the grim old castle a dark silhouette and fell upon the countless thousands of people who covered the flanks of the hill. Priests were passing amongst them, exhorting them to pray, and the crowd sat or knelt, young and old, covered with a blanket of buzzing sound.

When the marriage priest and the friend of the bride and friend of the groom appeared at the gate, exiting, the priest made a sign that the marriage had been performed. A combined sigh of hope from thousands of throats swept down the hill like a wind.

All eyes were fixed on the highest tower now, for they knew that the sacrificial bride and the hated Gris were there, alone. Nobody from the crowd left: they knew that at midnight the wife would depart the prison. They prayed for her. Would the therapy work? Would she ever be seen again alive?

The sun went down. The moon Niko rose: it bathed the ancient fortress with an eerie light; it made the uplifted faces a greenish haze on the hill.

The crowd did not miss the fact that an ambulance stood outside the gates, a medical team ready. As the Homeview announcer said, when the cameras panned it, it was there to grasp the possible hope that the bride, no matter how abused, could be treated and kept alive.

But what went on outside the prison and what went on inside were two different things.

During the ceremony, Gris had been numb as stone. Pratia Tayl, on the other hand, with sparkling eye, had been chattering like a loose cogwheel. And when the two friends and priest had left, she was not even disconcerted by the fact that a guard remained at the blastgun slot, ready to intervene.

Pratia had brought a basket containing a wedding feast which had survived the minute inspections and tests given it. With movements not unlike a golden songbird, she hopped about, spreading the comestibles upon a glittering cloth. She was popping bits and pieces at Gris's mouth-and missing much of the time-even before they sat down formally. They were missing because Gris was too numb to open his lips.

"Oh, you just wait," prattled Pratia, "we'll have such fun. You won't have to work anymore, for you'll be out of the Apparatus. And all you'll have to do is simply lie on a bed and I'll throw food at you like this. Your heaviest exertions will consist of simply sleeping and (bleeping). Isn't it marvelous? Have another berry."

Gris was in the total grip of unreality. He had been peacefully in this tower for months, his only companions a vocoscriber and his materials. Occasionally, the inmate in the next cell would scratch on the wall; now and then a bird would sit on the window ledge and chirp and fly away. All this commotion sounded to him like a din. There seemed to be, as well, some sort of a swelling moan outside he could not account for, for he was still under orders not to go near a window.

Sex was far from attractive to him these days. Since Prahd had changed his anatomy, women had given him nothing but solid trouble. Also this marriage had not bought him any time. He really didn't believe he'd have a trial. He had confessed his life away; the best he could hope for was the most painless execution Lord Turn could give him. During the ceremony, the more he had looked at Madison, the less he believed what Madison had said. The record of J. Warbler Madman was a proven thing to Gris. After his momentary hope, Gris had backslid.

"Oh, have some of this pink sparklewater. It is the very best: extremely nutritious," said Pratia. "It will get your strength up." And she laughed a little bell-like laugh. "You're really going to need it." Then she shook a finger at him. "Don't be so unresponsive! You simply must stop worrying. Three of the very best attorneys in all Voltar will defend you. Trust me!"

"I don't think any of you understand," said Gris. "I am Heller's prisoner. For some reason His Majesty has not issued orders to finish me off. But he will. He will.

Even if you could help me, I just confessed to every crime in the book. I don't believe you and I don't believe, Gods forbid, Madison."

"Oh, don't be so gloomy. Look there! It's already dark outside! Now have you had enough food and drink to feel really fortified? You have. Good. Now you just turn your back and I'll fix up the bed there and WHEEE!"

He sat facing the blank wall and heard her working busily in the stone alcove. She had brought a roll of bedding and he had no idea at all what she was up to.

Finally, she tapped him on the shoulder. Woodenly, he turned around. She wore a gown that was so transparent it made her nakedness an exclamation point.

The alcove had been draped with white gauze and a blue blanket of shimmercloth lay upon it.

She was plucking at his clothes, unfastening things. Like some sort of statue, he stood there and let himself be stripped. The only motion he made was to step out of his boots and pants.

"Oooooooooh!" cried Pratia, standing back and star­ing. "LOOK what we have here! Oooooh! Why, Soltan, what has happened? WHAT an imPROVEMENT! Oh, Soltan, that is positively DIVINE! I never DREAMED there could be one like THAT!"

Gris looked at her with resignation.

She was staring round-eyed. "No WONDER you never answered my postal cards. Women must have been haunting you in MOBS!"

Gris looked like he had been whipped.

She frowned. "But I see you are not responding." Then she smiled in inspiration. "Oh, I know what will get you excited. A picture of our son. It will make you want to have another one just like him!"

She rummaged in her purse. "I had this taken just yesterday. Here it is. Isn't he BEAUTIFUL?"

Gris looked at it. It was a baby, two or three months old. It was smiling and wide-eyed.

Abruptly Gris took hold of it and approached the light. Yes!

Straw-colored hair! Green eyes!

He glared at her. "This is Prahd's baby!"

"Oh, no, it's yours. There's lots of hair like that in my family and green eyes, too. Just because you have brown hair and eyes doesn't mean a thing. He's your son, all right. The registry papers show it. And now he's all legal, not even a bastard since this afternoon. Aren't you proud?"

It was just like Nurse Bildirjin's baby. "This is Prahd's," he said.

She laughed delightedly. "Why, you're jealous! Oh, this is wonderful! So you do love me a little bit after all. Well, come right over to this bed and you'll get all the love you want!"

She dragged him over to the inset bunk and through the gauze.

The guard was watchful as he stared into the cell across the sights of his blastgun.

The white curtains that hid the bed were moving.

Pratia's robe was thrown out of them and hit the floor. Her voice was reproving. "Come ON, Soltan. This is no time to be shy."

The guard was very watchful as Pratia's voice said, "Now, now, Soltan. Don't be naughty. You've been living in all this stone. Use it as an example."

A bird lit on the cell window ledge and listened. Pratia's voice was a little strained. "Well, I suppose it is the lot of women to do all the work."