Perhaps better, in fact, for his purposes.  For while he had shared Tebron’s mind he had been ... not only Tebron, but also Rynason, Earthman.  A corner of his mind had been alert and aware ... hearing the distant screams of Horng, wondering about the design of the Altar of Kor.  And he had seen other things when he looked through Tebron’s eyes:  when the ancient warlord had stormed the city-fortress, there had been an observer in him who had said:  An Earthman could go in this way, unobserved.  A smaller attacker could slip through here, could conceal himself where no Hirlaji could reach.

He arrived, at last, at the base of the wall where the blunt rocks of the mountains tumbled to a dead-end against flat, weathered stone.  So far he must not have been seen; there had been no disintegrator beams fired at him, no leathery Hirlaji heads watching from the walls.  He flattened against the stone and raised his eyes to the barriers.

The wall here had been built higher than the portions which faced the Flat, and it was stronger.  No one had tried to storm the city from this position, because it was too well protected.  But the walls had been built against the heavy, clumsy bodies of the grey aliens; with luck, a man could scale this wall.  The footholds in the weathered stones would be precarious, but perhaps it could be done.  And the Hirlaji, who regarded this wall as impregnable, would not be guarding it.

Sighting upward from flat against the wall, he chose his path quickly, and began to climb.  The stone was smooth but grainy; he dug his fingers into narrow niches and pulled himself slowly upward, bracing himself with footholds whenever he could.  It was laborious, painful work; twice he lost handholds and hung precariously until his straining fingers again found some indentation.  Sweat covered him; the wind from the Flat whipped around the wall and touched the moisture on his back coldly.  But his face was set in a frozen grimness and though his breath came in gasps he made no other sound.

When he had neared the top he suddenly seemed to reach a dead-end; the stones were smooth above him.  His arms ached, his shoulders seemed deadened; he clung numbly to the wall and searched for another path.  When he found it, he had to descend ten feet and move to the right before he could re-ascend; as he retraced his route down the wall he noticed blood where his torn fingers had left their mark.  But he could not feel the pain in his fingers.

At last, when the wall had come to seem a separate world of existence which was all that he would ever know, a vertical plane to which he clung with dim determination, hardly knowing why any longer ... at last, he reached the top.  His groping hand reached up and found the edge of the wall; his fingers grasped it gratefully and he pulled himself up to hang by both hands and survey the interior of the fortress.