Stepsons of Terra

8.

A timeless stretch of blurred minutes, hours, perhaps even days slipped by. They had taken away Ewing’s watch, along with his wallet and other personal belongings, and so he had no way of perceiving the passage of time. After the first few hours, he hardly cared.

The questioning went on round-the-clock. Usually it was Firnik who stood above him and urged him to confess, while Drayl or Thirsk hovered at one side, punching him from time to time. Sometimes it was Byra who interrogated him, in a flat metallic voice that might have issued from the throat of a robot.

He felt his resources weakening. His answers became mere hazy mumbles, and when they became too incoherent they dashed cold water in his face to revive him.

His tormentors were showing signs of weakening too. Firnik looked red-eyed from the strain; occasionally his voice took on a ragged, rasping quality. He pleaded with Ewing, cajoled him to end his stubborness and yield the information.

Once, when Ewing had muttered for the millionth time, “I told you the truth the first time,” Byra looked sharply at Firnik and said, “Maybe he’s sincere. Maybe we’re making a mistake. How long can we keep this up?”

“Shut up!” Firnik blazed. He wheeled on the girl and sent her spinning to the floor with a solid slap. A moment later, ignoring Ewing, he picked her up and muttered an apology. “We’ll have to use the mind-pick,” he said. “We are getting nowhere this way.”

Vaguely, Ewing heard something being rolled over the stone floor toward his cot. He did not look up. He heard Byra saying, “There’ll be nothing left of him when the pick’s through digging through his mind.”

“I can’t help that, Byra. We have to know. Drayl, have you accounted for the power drain?”

“Yes.”

“Then lower the helmet and attach the electrodes.” Ewing opened his eyes and saw a complex instrument by the side of his cot; its myriad dials and meters looked like fierce eyes to him. A gleaming copper helmet hung from a jointed neck. Sergeant Drayl was moving the helmet toward him, lowering it over his head. Clamps within the helmet gripped his skull gently.

He felt metal things being attached to his wrists. He remained perfectly still. He felt no fear, only a dull sensation of relief that the interrogation was at last approaching its conclusion.

“It’s ready to function, sir,” came Drayl’s voice.

“Very well.” Firnik sounded a little tense. “Ewing, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he said after some moments of silence.

“Good. You have your last chance. Why did the Free World of Corwin decide to send you to Earth?”

“Because of the Klodni,” Ewing began wearily. “They came out of Andromeda and—”

Firnik cut him off: “Enough! I’m turning on the pick.” Under the helmet, Ewing relaxed, waiting for the numbing thrust. A second passed, and another. Is this what it’s like? he wondered dully.

He heard Firnik’s voice, in sudden alarm: “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

“Never mind that.” It was a strange voice, firm and commanding. “Get away from that machine, Firnik. I’ve got a stunner here, and I’m itching to use it on you. Over there, against the wall. You too, Byra. Drayl, unclamp his wrists and get that helmet off him.”

Ewing felt the machinery lifting away from him. He blinked, looked around the room without comprehending. A tall figure stood near the door, holding a glittering little gun firmly fixed on the Sirians. He wore a face mask, a golden sheath that effectively concealed his features.

The newcomer crossed the room, coming to the side of Ewing’s cot, and lifted him with one hand while keeping the stunner trained on the baffled Sirians. Ewing was too weak to stand on his own power; he wobbled uncertainly, but the stranger held him up.

“Get on the phone, Firnik, and make sure you keep the vision off. Call the Consulate guard and tell him that the prisoner is being remanded to custody and will leave the building. The stunner’s on full intensity now. One phony word and I’ll freeze your brains for good.”

Ewing felt like a figure in a dream. Cradled against his rescuer’s side, he watched uncomprehendingly as a bitterly angry Firnik phoned upstairs and relayed the stranger’s message.

“All right, now,” the stranger said. “I’m leaving the building and I’m taking Ewing with me. But first”—he made an adjustment on the gun he was carrying—“I think it’s wise to take precautions. This ought to keep you out of circulation for a couple of hours, at least.”

Firnik made a strangled sound deep in his throat and leaped forward, arms clawing for the masked stranger. The stranger fired once; a blue stream of radiance came noiselessly from the muzzle of the gun, and Firnik froze in his tracks, his face locked in an expression of rage. Calmly the stranger directed his fire around the room until Byra, Drayl, and Thirsk were just three more statues.

Ewing felt the stranger tighten his hold on him. He tried to share the burden by moving himself, but his feet refused to support him.

Half-dragged, half-stumbling, he let himself be carried from the room and into a lift. He sensed upward motion. The lift stopped; he was moving forward. Gray waves of pain shuddered through him. He longed to stop where he was and go to sleep, but the inexorable pressure of the stranger’s arm carried him along.

Fresh air reached his nostrils. He coughed. He had become accustomed to the foul staleness of the room that had been his prison.

Through half-open eyes he watched his companion hail a cab; he was pushed inside, and heard the voice say, “Take us to the Grand Valloin Hotel, please.”

“Looks like your friend’s really been on a binge,” the driver said. “Don’t remember the last time I saw a man looking so used up.”

Why is he taking me back to the hotel? Ewing wondered. Firnik has spy beams planted there.

The gentle motion of the cab was soothing; after a few moments he dropped off to sleep. He woke later, once again being supported by the stranger. Upward. Into a corridor. Standing in front of a door.

The door opened. They went in.

It was his room at the hotel.

He staggered forward and fell face-first on the bed. He was aware of the stranger’s motions as he undressed him, washed his face, applied depilatory to his beard.

“I want to go to sleep,” he said.

“Soon. Soon.”

He was carried into the adjoining room and held under the shower until the ion-beam had peeled away the grime. Then, at last, he was allowed to sleep. The bedsheets were warm and womblike; he nestled in them gratefully, letting his tortured body relax, letting sleep sweep up over him and engulf him.

Vaguely he heard the door close behind him. He slept.

He woke some time later, his body stiff and sore in a hundred places. He rolled over in the bed, clamping a hand to his forehead to stop the throbbing back of his eyes.

What happened to me?

Memory came flooding back. He recalled finding Byra in his room, taking the drugged liquor, being carried off to the Sirian Consulate. Blurred days of endless torment, interrogation, a mind-pick machine lowered over his unresisting head—

Sudden rescue from an unknown source. Sleep. His memories ended there.

Achingly, he crawled from the bed and switched on the room telestat, dialed the news channel. The autotyper rattled, and a news report began to unwind from the machine:

Ewing did not care what the Governor-General had declared. His sole purpose in turning on the telestat had been to find out the date.

Fourday, the thirteenth of Fifthmonth. He calculated backward. He had had his interview with Mellis the previous Fiveday evening; that had been the seventh of Fifthmonth. On Fiveday night—Sixday morning, actually—he had been kidnapped by Firnik.

Two days later, on Oneday, he had awakened and the torture began. Oneday, Twoday, Threeday—and this was Fourday. The torture had lasted no more than two days, then. The stranger had rescued him either on Twoday or Threeday, and he had slept through until today.

He remembered something else: he had made his appointment with Myreck for Foumight. Tonight.

The house phone chimed.

Ewing debated answering it for a moment; it chimed again more insistently, and he switched it on. The robotic voice said, “There is a call for you, Mr. Ewing. Shall we put it through?”

“Who’s it from?” he asked cautiously.

“The party did not say.”

He considered. “Okay,” he said finally. “Put whoever it is on.”

Moments later the screen brightened and Ewing saw the hairless image of Scholar Myreck staring solicitously at him. “Have I disturbed you?” Myreck asked.

“Not at all,” Ewing said. “I was just thinking about you. We had an appointment for tonight, didn’t we?”

“Ah—yes. But I have just received an anonymous call telling me you have had a rather unfortunate experience. I was wondering if I could be of any service to you in alleviating your pain.”

Ewing remembered the miraculous massage Myreck had given him earlier. He also considered the fact that the hotel he was in belonged to Firnik, and no doubt the Sirian would be fully recuperated from his stunning soon and out looking for him. It was unwise to remain in the hotel any longer.

He smiled. “I’d be very grateful if you would be. You said you’d arrange to pick me up, didn’t you?”

“Yes. We will be there in a few minutes.”