by Джеффри Лорд
J laughed. There was no humor or amusement in that laugh, however-only a great deal of bitter experience. «The logical thing to do would be ring up the Special Branch and MI6. They can take her away and do further work on her much better than we can.»
«Haven't we learned enough already?»
«Enough, yes,» said J. «But not necessarily as much as she knows or as much as we could learn from several more days of interrogation. We can't tackle that without calling in more people and turning her over to them.»
«Then why not do it?»
«Two reasons. One, she already knows more about the Project than any of our intelligence people do. Second, even if she didn't, we'd have to tell them a good deal in order for them to interrogate her effectively.»
«So?»
«So that means a major breach of the security of Project Dimension X the minute we let her out of this room. A breach large enough so that sooner or later things that we don't want them to hear will get back to the opposition. At the very least they'll know we have Katerina. They may learn how much we know. They might even find out how much she knows. That isn't enough by itself to do us immediate damage. It is enough to make the KGB make the Project an even higher-priority target than it is already. That could do damage. The KGB is a formidable, tenacious, and ruthless opponent. I take them very seriously indeed.»
«You don't seem to have much faith in our own intelligence people,» said Leighton.
J started to flare angrily, then realized that Leighton hadn't meant to insult him. It was a sober scientist's question, and it deserved a sober scientific answer. He rubbed his eyes, which were beginning to smart with strain and fatigue, then spoke slowly.
«We do the best we can to keep our own organizations secure. But it is not humanly possible to guarantee one hundred-percent security against penetration by a first-class opposition. The KGB is first-class. It is almost a statistical certainty that there is a route to the opposition from inside the groups that would be interrogating Katerina.
«Besides, even if the opposition hasn't penetrated, what about our friends and allies? The CIA might not want to blow up the complex or kidnap you or assassinate Blade. But they might want-I believe the American phrase is 'a piece of the action'-for themselves and for the United States. Furthermore, if they know anything, we have to worry about their leaks as well as our own. The more people who know, the worse the problem gets, as I'm sure you've already realized. Your own mousetraps-«
J broke off as he realized that Lord Leighton wasn't listening to him. He was about to clear his throat to get Leighton's attention. Then he realized that the scientist was staring blank-faced at the ceiling, eyes half-closed and lips pursed, both hands clasped behind his back. It was one of the poses Lord Leighton adopted when he was working with total concentration on a particularly knotty problem.
Finally Leighton unclasped his hands and looked at J. «A question. Would we lose anything essential if Katerina were to disappear tonight, without any further interrogation, and without anyone else knowing what happened to her?»
J shook his head. «No. In fact, the opposition would have a nice knotty mystery on their hands if she just vanished. But how are we going to get her out of the-?» He broke off, as he saw Lord Leighton's eyes drift toward the glass booth in the center of the room-the glass booth from which Blade departed on his journeys to Dimension X. J's eyes met Leighton's. Each read agreement in the other's expression.
Why not? thought J. He couldn't imagine a more complete solution to the old problem of disposing of the body. There would be no blood or signs of a struggle-the woman would be alive and healthy until the moment Lord Leighton pulled down on the master switch. After that, Katerina would die more quickly than a good many people J had ordered killed, or killed with his own hands. He recalled a German colonel, dead these fifty years from a bayonet thrust into his stomach. There had been many others.
«Very good,» he said.
Leighton nodded. «Do you have anything that will wake her up in a hurry?»
«Why? Can't we just strap her in as she is?»
Leighton shook his head. «Our information indicates that the computer won't operate reliably on an unconscious mind. She needs to be reasonably awake and alert, but cooperative. Can you prepare her that way?»
«Oh, certainly,» said J. He opened his case, and as he did so an irresistibly amusing thought struck him. He straightened up with the ampoules and needle in his hand and looked at Leighton.
«I've just thought of something. Suppose our friend Katerina turns out to be our long-awaited new person? Suppose she can somehow travel into Dimension X and remain alive and sane?»
Lord Leighton looked pained. It was obvious that he thought J's remark in something less than the best taste.
Katerina knew that something unusual was going to happen to her. She suspected it was going to involve the computer that loomed so monstrously over her, and the glass booth in the center of the room. At least the two men standing over her showed no signs of taking her anywhere else, or calling anyone else to take her away.
Also, they kept looking toward the booth and the metal chair inside it.
They had her full of drugs, drugs that kept her awake and aware but kept her from moving. In spite of everything, she was glad she was awake, She had been a candidate in physics at Moscow University before her KGB training began, and she still retained a scientist's curiosity. She would stay alert and observant until the end. She accepted that she would never leave this room alive, but she would at least satisfy her own curiosity if she couldn't do anything else.
That thought calmed her. A moment later her calm vanished, as the man she knew to be J bent down and calmly began undressing her. He worked quickly, not stopping until she was entirely nude. That in itself didn't bother her so much. What did bother her was the way both J and Lord Leighton looked at her and touched her. She knew she was an attractive and desirable woman. Quite a few men had said so, and several had responded accordingly. These two were handling her as impersonally as if she was a side of frozen mutton, lifeless, sexless, and uninteresting.
It was even worse when they began smearing the black cream on her skin. It smelled dreadful, and they were smearing it on in great dripping, gooey handfuls. They were touching every inch of her skin, even smearing the stuff into her pubic hair. But they were still doing it impersonally. Now they reminded her of two mechanics hard at work on an automobile.
They lifted her, carried her over to the booth, and sat her down in the chair. The seat was made of black rubber that felt unpleasantly cold against her bare skin. Lord Leighton went to work, attaching an incredible number of electrodes to every part of her body. From each electrode a wire ran off into the computer. Leighton's touch and manner remained as lifeless as the computer, even when he attached an electrode to each of her nipples.
Eventually Lord Leighton ran out of electrodes, or at least of places on her body to attach them. Lights were flashing on the computer's main console. Now it was obviously programmed and ready for-whatever was about to happen. Katerina found herself wanting to hold her breath, forced herself not to, but could not make herself relax. In another few moments she would know the secret of this Project, a mightier secret than any Soviet agent or scientist had ever unearthed. A moment after that she would be dead, but she would be dead knowing, rather than ignorant. Somehow that was enormously important to her.
The two men were standing side by side in front of the main console now. Both of them were looking at her, but Lord Leighton's hand was resting on the plastic handle of a large red switch. His fingers closed on the handle and began to pull the switch downward in its slot. It reached the bottom, and Katerina's world exploded.
It felt as though a giant hand with steel fingers ending in red-hot claws had clamped down on her head, squeezing and squeezing until her skull cracked and her brains ran out and were charred by the claws. She had never felt such pain, never even imagined that she could feel such p
ain. Then another giant hand clamped itself just as tightly on her stomach and groin.
She screamed then, screamed in pain, screamed in fear, screamed at the sense of loss that filled her. She was going to die without knowing what the Project was all about, die in agony, die with her body bursting open like a rotten fruit and melting like butter in the sun. She screamed as if by screaming loudly enough she could forget the pain or drive it away. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed-
Chapter Ten
Blade awoke and soon realized that he was tied hand and foot to some sort of framework. He could feel the ropes around his wrists and ankles, and hard rods digging into his back and thighs. He was quite effectively immobilized.
It took him a while to realize that he hadn't broken any bones or smashed up anything inside in falling nearly forty feet. He had certainly picked up a lovely collection of bruises on every bit of skin he could see, and aches and pains in every joint he could feel. However, he had felt much worse on other occasions and still been able to move, run, and fight.
Blade raised his head as far as he could and looked around. Twenty feet away Arllona lay spread-eagled, naked on a wooden frame. On her forehead someone had painted or tattooed the flame emblem of the Consecrated. Her eyes were closed, but Blade could see the slow, regular rise and fall of her breasts. He hoped she would stay unconscious. After all the poor woman had been through, the least she deserved was to die without any more terror or pain.
Beyond Arllona rose a stand of tall trees. Through the trees Blade saw the orange glow of the Mouth of the Gods, blanking out about a third of the stars overhead.
Listening carefully. Blade could hear the roar as the great jet of ignited gas leaped into the sky.
He could also hear, not so faintly, another sound. Not far away heavy cannon were going off in irregular salvos. In the intervals of silence Blade could hear the faint sound of musketry. The firing seemed to be coming from the outer walls. The Raufi must have settled down within range. At least they were not over the outer wall-yet.
Twenty-odd men were standing on the fringes of the trees. About half of them were soldiers. In the glow from the Mouth Blade saw that their faces were chalk colored with fear and slick with sweat. The others wore the robes of the Consecrated. Standing among them was Jormin. From the way he was waving his arms, he appeared to Blade to be making some sort of impassioned speech. His sleeves flapped like the wings of a drunken bird as he spoke. Blade couldn't hear a single word, but he doubted that he was missing very much.
Blade made another test of his bonds. They were not only well tied, they felt like wire or something similar that would not burn, chafe or cut. That made his chances of escaping before they thrust him into the Mouth of the Gods even smaller than before.
Blade calmly faced the vision of himself dissolving in the flames until there was nothing left but charred bone and grease, then put it firmly out of his mind He slowed his breathing and settled down to gather as much strength as he could. His chances of escaping looked very slim. His chances of taking a few Kanoans with him and dying a quicker and cleaner death than the one awaiting him in the Mouth of the Gods-that was something else. He wanted to be ready.
After a while Jormin's speech came to an end. Either he'd run out of things to say or his audience had run out of patience. Jormin led the rest of the Consecrated over toward Arllona. Blade got a good look at their faces as they stood around her, looking down. The ugliness of frustrated lust was on every one of those faces. The Consecrated were sworn to celibacy and asceticism, but those faces told a very different story. One or two of the robed men were bold enough to bend down and stroke Arllona's unresisting flesh with red-gloved hands.
Jormin finally called his group to order and led them toward Blade. Blade started thinking of particularly ripe insults to throw at Jormin. The priest stalked closer, his face drained of all emotion except triumph.
Then three deep-toned trumpets sounded from behind Blade, loud enough to drown out the Mouth of the Gods and the distant gunfire. Jormin's head jerked up as if it had been pulled by a noose. A moment later the trumpets sounded again, and after that came the thud of several sets of hooves and many pairs of fast-moving feet. Jormin's head swung to the right and the look of triumph vanished from his face like a puff of smoke.
Three men in the uniforms of the lay servants of the Consecrated rode into view, mounted on three barrel-chested black horses. Each man carried a silver trumpet. They reined to a stop with practiced ease, put the trumpets to their lips, and blew again. Jormin's face twisted. He looked as though he wanted to burst into tears, or into a fit of temper, or into both at once. Then, slowly, with obvious reluctance, he went down on both knees. The other Consecrated did the same, and so did the soldiers under the trees. All faced in the direction from which the riders had come.
The sound of running feet grew louder. Then a dozen armed lay servants came into view. Behind them ran twelve powerfully built slaves, naked except for black loincloths. They carried a large closed sedan chair of heavily carved and gilded wood, with black jade panels and silver flame ornaments set into the doors. They stopped between Blade and the three horsemen, who dismounted and blew their trumpets once more. All eyes shifted to the sedan chair. The door facing Blade opened on noiseless silver hinges, and a man stepped out.
Not just a man, Blade realized. A man of power. He wore the robes of one of the Consecrated, with a deep border of purple, red, and silver embroidery, snugly belted in by a broad green belt with a flame-shaped gold buckle set with rubies. From the belt hung a silver-sheathed dagger and a gilded leather purse.
The staff the man held out in front of him quickly drew Blade's eyes away from the robes. It was a simple design-a four-foot cylinder of black jade about three inches in diameter. But every square inch of its surface was carved with gilded flame shapes or covered by silver rings set with rubies and emeralds. Around one end was a circle of sapphires, on the other an enormous diamond of at least a thousand carats.
Eye-dazzling fire in a dozen colors glinted from the staff as the priest raised it over his head. His thin arms easily held it there for a moment, then lowered it to waist level. Jormin hesitated briefly, then dashed forward so fast that he nearly stumbled and sprawled on his face in front of the man. He recovered, went to his knees, and held out his hands for the staff. The new man stared down at Jormin with a totally blank face that somehow conveyed a more searing contempt than any glare. Then, slowly, he lowered the staff into Jormin's hands and crossed his arms on his chest. Jormin backed away without speaking or even rising to his feet.
The new man would not have needed his staff or robes to convey the impression of power and authority. Blade realized that the man could have done just as well if he'd been wearing no more than a slave's loincloth. He stood well over six feet tall, with much the same lean build and long bony face as Mirdon. He was entirely bald, and his deep-set eyes roamed about continuously. In another man that might have suggested nervousness. In this man it suggested that nothing escaped his attention or his judgment. It reduced the rest of the Consecrated, even Jormin, to a collection of guilty schoolboys waiting for the teacher to hand out punishments.
The silence went on and on, until finally the tall man spoke.
«Jormin, you considered that my Meditation gave you the right to act as you have?»
«It cannot be that you would wish no one to enter the Mouth of the Gods, even at a time like this, when the-«
«I know what the time is, Jormin. It cannot be that you know my mind. It also cannot be that this which you have done is pleasing to me.»
Jormin turned even paler at those words. Whatever he had been about to say died in his throat with a gurgle. He now looked less like a schoolboy than like a prisoner waiting for sentence to be pronounced by a notoriously severe judge. Blade had a momentary and delightful vision-Jormin, spread-eagled on another rack and being thrust into the Mouth of the Gods along with himself and Arllona.
Agai
n the tall man let the silence drag on, apparently just to make Jormin nervous. Blade sighed. He was more or less resigned to dying. He was not resigned to enduring several hours of ceremonies, speeches, and religious politics beforehand. Besides, the longer the Consecrated went on blathering, the more likely Arllona would be to wake up. Then she would not only have to die, but to die in panic and agony.
Finally the tall man spoke. «It is not pleasing. You, Jormin, are not First among the Consecrated. I, Tyan, am First. I am First even during Meditation. I will be First until I choose to be so no longer, or the gods themselves call me to judgment. It is understandable, Jormin, that you forgot that. You always found it difficult to remember your place among the Consecrated. That was true when you were only Ninth among the Scholars; it is true today. It is not pleasing.» Jormin, Blade noticed, looked about ready to fall over in a dead faint. Blade hoped he would.
«But you have done nothing against the laws of Kano or of the gods. You sought to make a proper sacrifice, although you also sought glory for yourself. Indeed, a proper sacrifice is needed at this time. So you have shown zeal proper to one of the Consecrated.
«There are questions to be asked, as to how this man and this woman came to escape from the prison. I shall not ask them of you, Jormin, nor of anyone here and now.»
Tyan strode forward until he stood between Blade and Arllona. He raised both hands high, then pointed one at Blade and the other at the woman. «I, Tyan, declare that these sacrifices have been prepared fitly, according to all that governs these preparations. I, Tyan, declare that neither bears a blemish that makes them unfit for the Mouth of the Gods. I, Tyan, First Consecrated of the Gods of Kano, bid the sacrifice proceed as it has begun!»
The last sentence rang out across the clearing like another trumpet call. Jormin straightened up, looking like a man reprieved from death. The other Consecrated and the soldiers started off in various directions.
