The Chalice of Death (39 page)

Firnik chuckled. “Corwin's fifty light-years away. Right now you're on Earth. The only rights you have are the ones I say you have.”

Angrily, Ewing attempted to spring to his feet. “I demand that you release me! I—”

“Hit him,” Firnik said tonelessly.

Again the barrel-bodied Sirian moved forward silently and slapped him—in the same place. Ewing felt the cut on his lip widen, and this time one of his lower teeth abraded the delicate inner surface of his lip as well. He did not make any further attempts to rise.

“Now, then,” Firnik said in a conversational voice. “If you're quite sure you'll refrain from causing any more trouble, we can begin. You know Miss Clork, I think.”

Ewing nodded.

“And these gentlemen here”—Firnik indicated the two silent Sirians—“are Sergeant Drayl and Lieutenant Thirsk of the City of Valloin Police. I want you to realize that there'll be no need for you to try to call the police, since we have two of their finest men with us today.”

“Police? Aren't they from Sirius IV?”

“Naturally.” Firnik's eyes narrowed. “Sirians make the best policemen. More than half of the local police are natives of my planet.”

Ewing considered that silently. The hotels, the police—what else? The Sirians would not need a bloody coup to establish their power officially; they had already taken control of Earth by default, with the full consent, if not approval, of the Terrestrials. When the time came, all the Sirians needed to do was to give Governor-General Mellis formal notice that he was relieved of his duties, and Earth would pass officially into Sirian possession.

The Corwinite let his gaze roam uneasily around the room. Unfamiliar-looking machines stood in the corners of the room.
The latest in torture devices
, he thought. He looked at Firnik.

“What do you want with me?”

The Sirian folded his thick arms and said, “Information. You've been very stubborn, Ewing.”

“I've been telling the truth. What do you want me to do—make something up to please you?”

“You're aware that the government of Sirius IV is soon to extend a protectorate to Earth,” Firnik said. “You fail to realize that this step is being done for the mother world's own good, to protect it in its declining days against possible depredations from hostile worlds in this system. I'm not talking about hypothetical invaders from other galaxies.”

“Hypothetical? But—”

“Quiet. Let me finish. You, representing Corwin and possibly some of the other distant colonies, have come to Earth to verify the rumor that such a protectorate is about to be created. The worlds you represent have arrived at the totally false conclusion that there is something malevolent about our attitude toward Earth—that we have so-called imperialistic ‘designs' on Earth. You fail to understand the altruistic motives behind our decision to relieve the Terrestrials of the tiresome burden of governing themselves. And so your planet has sent you here as a sort of spy, to determine in actuality what the relationship between Sirius IV and Earth is, and to make the necessary arrangements with the Terrestrials to defend Earth against us. To this end you've already conferred with Governor-General Mellis, and you have an appointment to visit one Myreck, a dangerous radical and potential revolutionary. Why do you insist on denying this?”

“Because you're talking idiotic gibberish! I'm no spy! I'm—”

The side of Sergeant Drayl's stiffened hand descended on Ewing at the point where his neck joined his shoulder. He gagged but retained control over himself. His clavicle began to throb.

“You've told both Miss Clork and myself,” Firnik said, “that your purpose in coming to Earth was to seek Terrestrial aid against an alleged invasion of non-human beings from beyond the borders of this galaxy. It's such a transparently false story that it makes you and your planet look utterly pitiful.”

“It happens to be true,” Ewing said doggedly.

Firnik snorted. “True? There is no such invasion!”

“I've seen photos of Barnholt—”

The barrage of punches that resulted nearly collapsed him. He compelled himself to cling to consciousness, but he was dizzy with pain. A red haze swirled around his head, it seemed.

“You pose a grave threat to joint Sirian-Terrestrial security,” Firnik said sonorously. “We must have the truth from you, so we can guide our actions accordingly.”

You've had the truth
, Ewing said silently. He did not speak it aloud; that would only be inviting a blow.

“We have means of interrogation,” Firnik went on. “Most of them, unfortunately, involve serious demolition of the personality. We are not anxious to damage you; you would be more useful to us with your mind intact.”

Ewing stared blankly at him—and at Byra, standing wordlessly at his side.

“What do you want me to tell you?” he asked.

“Details of the Corwinite plans. Full information on the essence of your interview with Governor-General Mellis. Information on possible belligerent intentions on the part of other colony worlds.”

“I've told you all I can tell you,” Ewing said wearily. “Anything else will be lies.”

Firnik shrugged. “We have time. The present mode of interrogation will continue until either some response is forthcoming or we see that your defenses are too strong. After that”—he indicated the hooded machines in the corners of the room—“other means will be necessary.”

Ewing smiled faintly despite the pain and the growing stiffness of his lips. He thought for a flickering moment of his wife Laira, his son Blade, and all the others on Corwin, waiting hopefully for him to return with good news. And instead of a triumphant return bearing tidings of aid, he faced torture, maiming, possible death at the hands of Sirians who refused to believe the truth.

Well, they would find out the truth soon enough, he thought blackly. After the normal means of interrogation were shown to be useless, when they had put into use the mind-pick and the brain-burner and the other cheerful devices waiting in the shadowy corners for him. They would turn his mind inside out and reveal its inmost depths, and then they would find he had been telling the truth.

Perhaps then they would begin to worry about the Klodni. Ewing did not care. Corwin was lost to the aliens whether he returned or not, and possibly it was better to die now than to live to see his planet's doom.

He looked up at the Sirian's cold, heavy features with something like pity. “Go ahead,” he said gently. “Start interrogating. You're in for a surprise.”

Chapter Eight

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 stubbornness 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 moment's 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 that 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 the 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: