The Coordinator stopped and took a brief turn about the room.  "Think about it that way," he said.  He was silent, leaving Ryne alone for the moment.

Ryne thought about it, and he realized the Coordinator had made a mistake.  The man had frightened him before; his mind was quick and trained more than Ryne's could ever hope to be.  But by pausing, he had broken the spell of his words, and Ryne was able to lift the net that had been settling around him.

"I don't understand what I can do," he repeated.

The Coordinator sat facing him.  "I'll be frank with you, Ryne.  I have agents throughout Lower City - for the protection of everyone, not to harass.  They aren't always successful in getting information, but they do hear things - words not meant for their ears, rumors.  All of these I synthesize.  When I see a thread persisting, I try to track it down.  What I'm going to tell you now is one of those threads.

"Laszlo has found some of the old books in the ancient script, books from the original ship.  And he found something in those books that can be a threat to our existence."

"Do you mean information about weapons?" Ryne asked.

If the Coordinator knew that Ryne was acting he gave no sign.  He said, "I don't know.  That's one of the things I need to find out.  But I do know that only one man in the City - perhaps on this entire world - could possibly translate the ancient script into language meaningful to Laszlo.  That man is you."

Ryne was on firm ground now.  He knew what to say to the Coordinator.  "I learned so little in the first place, and I've forgotten most of that."

"Not forgotten, only pushed to the back of your mind," the Coordinator said.  He smiled thinly at Ryne.  "I have complete files on the history of the Readers and Listeners.  I know how each succeeding Reader was groomed by his predecessor.  I know that from the time you first began to talk, you were subjected to both our language and the ancient one.  Before you learned to read in school, you were reading simple children's books in the ancient language.  The knowledge is still in you, Ryne."

He nodded as if answering a question Ryne had been about to ask.  "That's why you're the one man who can help.  I want to give you to Laszlo and his group.  I want you to find out what you're expected to read - and what it means.  And then I want you to report that information to me.  I want you to learn every detail of Laszlo's plan to destroy us; I want to know those details.  In no other way can I be in a position to heal the wounds he'll inflict on the City."

The analogy had fascinated, hypnotized, Ryne before.  Now its magic was gone.  He said in a puzzled tone, "I can't just go down and ask Laszlo to take me in - not after the way I fought to get away."

"No," the Coordinator agreed.  "But you can get them to help you in such a way that you'll logically be grateful to them for doing so.  You can go down as an Exile."

The victory was almost too easy; and suddenly Ryne was afraid.  He was not just afraid that the Coordinator was playing with him, but afraid of the very word itself.  Exile!