"You can tell me anything," said Harris gently.
"I can't tell you this. Not anybody short of the President." Lancaster caught himself. "Of course, that's assuming that I did really spend the summer for something other than my vacation. But—"
Harris sighed. "I was afraid of this. I'm sorry, Lancaster." He nodded to his policemen. "Go ahead, boys."
Lancaster kept sliding into unconsciousness. They jolted him back to life with stimulant injections and vigorous slaps and resumed working on him. Now and then they would let up and Harris' face would swim out of a haze of pain, smiling, friendly, sympathetic, offering him a smoke or a shot of whiskey. Lancaster sobbed and wanted more than anything else in the world to do as that kindly man asked. But he didn't dare. He knew what happened to those who revealed state secrets.
Finally he was thrown back into his cell and left to himself. When he recovered from his faint—that was a very slow process—he had no idea of how many hours or days had gone by. There was a water tap in the room and he drank thirstily, vomited the liquid up again, and sat with his head in his hands.
So far, he thought dully, they hadn't done too much to him. He was short several teeth, and there were some broken fingers and toes, and maybe a floating kidney. The other bruises, lacerations, and burns would heal all right if they got the chance.
Only they wouldn't.
He wondered vaguely how Security had gotten onto his track. Berg's precautions had been very thorough. So thorough, apparently, that Harris could find no trace of what had really happened that summer, and was going only on suspicion. But what had made him suspicious in the first place? An anonymous tip-off—from whom? Maybe some enemy, some rival on the Project, had chosen this way of getting rid of his sector chief.
In the end, Lancaster thought wearily, he'd tell. Why not do it now? Then—probably—he'd only be shot for betraying Berg's confidence. That would be the easy way out.
No. He'd hang on for awhile yet. There was always a faint chance.
His cell door opened and two guards came in. He was past flinching from them, but he had to be supported on his way to the questioning room.
Harris sat there, still smiling. "How do you do, Dr. Lancaster," he said politely.
"Not so well, thank you." The grin hurt his face.
"I'm sorry to hear that. But really, it's your own fault. You know that."
"I can't tell you anything," said Lancaster. "I'm under Security oath. I can't speak of this to anyone below the President."
Harris looked annoyed. "Don't you think the President has better things to do than come running to every enemy of the state that yaps after him?"
"There's been some mistake, I tell you," pleaded Lancaster.
"I'll say there has. And you're the one that's made it. Go ahead, boys." Harris picked up a magazine and started reading.
After awhile, Lancaster focused his mind on Karen Marek and kept it there. That helped him bear up. If they knew, out in the station, what was happening to him, they—well, they wouldn't forget him, try to pretend they'd never known him, as the little fearful people of Earth did. They'd speak up, and do their damnedest to save their friend.
The blows seemed to come from very far away. They didn't do things like this out in the station. Lancaster realized the truth at that moment, but it held no surprise. The most natural thing in the world. And now, of course, he'd never talk.
Maybe.
When he woke up, there was a man before him. The face blurred, seemed to grow to monstrous size and then move out to infinite distances. The voice of Harris had a ripple in it, wavering up and down, up and down.
"All right, Lancaster, here's the President. Since you insist, here he is."
"Go ahead, American," said the man. "Tell me. It's your duty."
"No," said Lancaster.
"But I am the President. You wanted to see me."
"Most likely a double. Prove your identity."
The man who looked like the President sighed and turned away.
Lancaster woke up again lying on a cot. He must have been brought awake by a stimulant, for a white-coated figure was beside him, holding a hypodermic syringe. Harris was there too, looking exasperated.
"Can you talk?" he asked.
"I—yes." Lancaster's voice was a dull croak. He moved his head, feeling the ache of it.
"Look here, fellow," said Harris. "We've been pretty easy with you so far. Nothing has happened to you that can't be patched up. But we're getting impatient now. It's obvious that you're a traitor and hiding something."
Well, yes, thought Lancaster, he was a traitor, by one definition. Only it seemed to him that a man had a right to choose his own loyalties. Having experienced what the police state meant, he would have been untrue to himself if he had yielded to it.
"If you don't answer my questions in the next session," said Harris, "we'll have to start getting really rough."
Lancaster remained silent. It was too much effort to try to speak.
"Don't think you're being heroic," said Harris. "There's nothing pretty or even very human about a man under interrogation. You've been screaming as loud as anybody."
Lancaster looked away.
He heard the doctor's voice. "I'd advice giving him a few days' rest before starting again, sir."
"You're new here, aren't you?" asked Harris.
"Yes, sir. I was only assigned to this duty a few weeks ago."
"Well, we don't put on kid gloves for traitors."
"That's not what I mean, sir," said the doctor. "There are limits to pain beyond which further treatment simply doesn't register. Also, I'm a little suspicious about this man's heart. It has a murmur, and questioning puts a terrific strain on it. You wouldn't want him to die on your hands, would you, sir?"
"Mmmm—no. What do you advise?"
"Just a few days in the hospital, with treatment and rest. It'll also have a psychological effect as he thinks of what's waiting for him."
Harris considered for a moment. "All right. I've got enough other things to do anyway."
"Very good, sir. You won't regret this."
Lancaster heard the footsteps retreat into silence. Presently the doctor came around to stand facing him. He was a short, curly-haired man of undistinguished appearance. For a moment they locked eyes, then Lancaster closed his. He wanted to tell the doctor to go away, but it wasn't worth the trouble.
Later he was put on a stretcher and carried down endless halls to another cell. This one had a hospital look about it, somehow, and the air was sharp with the smell of antiseptics. The doctor came when he was installed in bed and took his arm and slipped a needle into it. "Sleepy time," he said.
Lancaster drifted away again.
When he woke up, he felt darkness and movement. He looked around, wondering if he had gone blind, and the breath moaned out between his bruised lips. A hand was laid on his shoulder and a voice spoke out of the black.
"It's okay, fella. Take it easy. There'll be no more questions."
It was the doctor's voice, and the doctor looked nothing at all like Charon, but still Lancaster wondered if he weren't being ferried over the river of death. There was a thrumming all about him, and he heard a low keening of wind. "Where are we going?" he mumbled.
"Away. You're in a stratorocket now. Just take it easy."
Lancaster fell asleep after awhile.
Beyond that there was a drugged, confused period where he was only dimly aware of moving and trying to talk. Shadows floated across his vision, shadows telling him something he couldn't quite grasp. He followed obediently enough. Full clarity came eventually, and he was lying in a bunk looking up at a metal ceiling. The shivering pulse of rockets trembled in his body. A spaceship?