He lost all track of time. When he regained consciousness he was naked on a long table in the barren room. In darkness except for four brilliant lamps trained on his massive body, \bullet so helpless now because of drugs and straps and chains. His captors were only shadows and voices beyond the fringe of the lights.
He knew they were running a Bertillon on him. He was well drugged, yet he understood this. It gave him hope. Credit his own brain power, or Lord Leighton's brain stretching machines and psychological regimes; whatever, it meant that he could fight off the drug meant to keep him unconscious and docile.
Blade feigned unconsciousness. It was the only weapon he had at the moment, other than the lethal capsule he carried in his bowels, and he might not get a chance to use that.
They were very methodical. He felt the occasional touch of a pencil on his flesh as a voice droned out the sum of his scars, moles, warts. His arms and legs were measured and graduated clamps affixed to his skull.
"Dolichocephalic," a voice said. It went on to register a cephalic index of 70 odd. So he was a long head - Blade could have told them that.
Along with the Bertillon he was given a thorough physical search. They stuck wooden blocks in his mouth and examined every tooth for false caps. Blade had none. His teeth were perfect.
He was turned over and had one hell of a time to keep from squirming as a greased rubber glove searched his rectum.
"Nothing concealed on him," a voice said. "Absolutely nothing. I'll swear to that."
Not on me, Blade thought. In me! Waiting to blow you bastards to hell. As soon as I can figure a way to do it without killing myself, too.
After a long time they left him alone. Still naked, still strapped to the long table, Blade opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the oriel window at the far end of the room. A round bar of moonlight leaked through it. Blade adopted it as a talisman, a refuge, something to cling to. A window was symbolic of a world beyond. It led to freedom. All he had to do was get through it. And as long as he knew it was an oriel window, could count at least some of the acanthus leaves, he was not a total loss, not a mindless thing. He waited patiently, not trying to snap his bonds. Useless, that. They were much too strong. And he did not particularly want his freedom yet - not until he knew more about his situation and about the number and disposal of his enemies. Knew where he was. As of the moment he had not a clue other than the quiet and the hourly chime of a far off bell. He was in the country and not too far from a church. That was all he could be sure of.
He was disappointed when they did not drug him again that night. The stuff was wearing off and so he must face them, fully conscious and deprived of his only weapon. Other than the death he carried in his guts.
When morning came he was given a light breakfast. His right hand was set free and a tray placed on the broad table. Two men served him, one with the tray and another lurking in the background with a pistol in his hand. Neither man would speak. Blade, after the first rebuff, watched the man with the pistol and soon understood that they were all being watched. There was a peephole.
When he finished the meal his right hand was manacled again and the men left. Blade, conscious that he was being watched, lay and stared at the oriel window. The weather was changeable. First a pale beam of sun, then a light flurry of rain, then gloom and, finally, more weak sun. He cared nothing for the weather - the fact that he could see it was important. The oriel window led to the outside.
A man came into the room. He stopped by the door and looked at Blade. Blade stared back. Behind the man the door closed and a bar fell noisily into place.
The man was tall and thin. He wore a well cut suit of blue with a tiny red stripe. Black shoes. Discreet socks and tie. His head and face were covered with a black sack-mask of nylon or silk that made him look like an overdressed executioner. He took a few steps nearer the table and halted, staring at Blade. The eye slits were narrow. All Blade could see was a flash of white cornea.
The voice was impersonalized, void of intonation or accent, as near a mechanical tone as the man could purposely make it.
"You are Richard Blade?"
The big man on the table nodded. "You know that."
"Of course I know it, Mr. Blade. I want to hear you admit it."
A tape recorder hidden somewhere. Along with the peephole. They were running a last check on the real Blade \bullet before they put the phony into circulation.
Blade gave the masked man a cold smile. "So I admit it. I am Richard Blade."
The man nodded slightly. "You are J's man? You work for MI6?"
They did not, then, know about MI6A.
Blade played along. No point in doing otherwise. They knew all about him and about J. Just as J, and Blade, knew all about them and about TWIN. All this was pointless preliminary, a mere skirmishing of pawns.
"What is the object of all this?" Blade said petulantly. "You know all the answers. We are both professionals and you just happen to have won this round. So come off it, eh? I'm cold and I have to go to the bathroom. How about it?"
Blade thought he heard a chuckle from behind the mask. "You will be allowed to go to the bathroom. Not just yet. First I want to put your mind at ease - we are going to drug you again, very shortly, and we have found that an absence of fear increases the potential of the drug. So let me reassure you now, Mr. Blade - you will not be harmed physically in any way. No torture or compulsion of any sort. We do not, er, operate on so crude a level."
"That is nice to know," said Blade. But not exactly surprising, he thought. They didn't want to harm him, rough him up. They intended to smuggle him out of England and ship him to Russia. There the real experts would take over and start working on him. Brainwash him. Milk him of everything he knew. Maybe even make a good Communist out of him. It had happened before.
The masked man's tone was nearly genial. "Yes. I thought you would enjoy knowing that you have nothing to fear in the, er, physical line. I am not even going to question you without drugs. You would only lie to me."
Blade nodded. "You are so absolutely right."
A nod. "Yes. Whereas under the drug you will not be able to lie, no matter how desperately you try. Drugs are a marvelous thing - they make life so much easier for all concerned.
Blade stared at the oriel window. He counted acanthus leaves. The bastard was right, of course. They were probably going to use sodium pentathol on him, or some variant of it, and if they knew their technique he would soon be babbling like a babe in a crib. Yet there might be, must be, some technique by which he could fight back. But what?
He was deliberately vulgar. He said: "You may be right, whoever you are, but right now I have to take a shit. Right now! Unless you do something fast I will have shat, past tense, and your people are going to have a mess to clean up."
Blade did not really have to go to the toilet. In any case he was not ready to pass the deadly bomb he carried in his entrails - not until he saw a way out of the place. But he wanted to know where the bathroom was, and he wanted to start setting a pattern.
"I'm not kidding," Blade said harshly. "I ate breakfast a long time ago. I can't hold it much longer."
"Very well," said the man. "I will send someone for you."
He went to the door and rapped. There was a whispered conversation. In a few minutes the men who had given Blade his breakfast appeared. Both carried pistols. A third man stood near the door, cradling a Sten gun in his arms, as the two men loosed Blade and tossed him a rough blanket to drape over himself. They were still not talking. They pointed to the door.