burning

trickled into his mouth and he was forced to swallow. It burned in his throat and settled into a pleasant fire in his stomach.
“Well, so you have found him?” A new speaker broke through the mists about him.
“Greetings, Haga Zicti! We have been waiting for you, sir. Maybe you can suggest treatment—”
“So—and what is the matter with the rescued? I see no wounds of importance—”
“The trouble is here.” Fingers touched Kartr’s forehead. And he shrank away from that touch. It threatened him in some odd fashion.
“That is the way of it, eh? Well, we might have ­deduced as much. A false memory or—”
He was running away, running through the dark. But that other was behind him, trying to compel him—and, with a moan of desolate pain, Kartr found himself again in the hallway, facing Cummi and the Can-hound, made to relive for the third time that shameful and degrading defeat and murderous attack upon his own comrades.
“So Cummi took him over! He must have used other minds to build up such power—!”
Cummi! There was a hot rage deep inside Kartr, burning through the shame and despair—Cummi— The Ageratan must be faced—faced and conquered. If he did not do that he would never feel clean again. But would he even if he vanquished Cummi? There would remain that moment of horror when he had fired straight into Zinga’s astonished face.
“He took over.” Was he actually saying those words or were they only ringing in his head. “I killed—killed Zinga—”
“Kartr! Great Space, what is he talking about? You killed—!”
“Describe the killing!” And he could not disobey that sharp command.
He began to talk slowly, painfully, and then with a spate of words which seemed to release some healing in their flow. The fight for