Meanwhile, having zipped in under the building, the tiny spy-eye cruised the length of a long supporting beam as Batkin peered up through cracks, gaps, and holes in the wood fl?ooring. Finally, the agent found what he’d been searching for in the form of a small hole and sent his proxy up into the room above. It wasn’t safe to fl?y, so the marblesized invader began to roll along the base of a wall instead, a maneuver that made Batkin so dizzy he was forced to pause occasionally and let his “head” clear. Eventually, having penetrated a well-lit room, Batkin brought the sphere-shaped spy-eye to a halt in the shadow cast by a centrally located table. A back could be seen above and opposite him. Tragg’s head and shoulders were visible beyond. Even though it was dark outside, the overseer was still wearing his goggles. Because he needed them? Or to look menacing? If so, it was working, because judging from the POW’s responses, he was clearly frightened.
But nothing came of the interview. Nothing Batkin could put a theoretical fi?nger on anyway. Nor were the second, third, or fourth interviews any more productive than the fi?rst. Which was why Batkin was about to pull out and write the whole thing off to experience, when a fi?fth prisoner entered the room. Except rather than wait for an invitation to sit down as his predecessors had—
this individual dropped into the guest chair as if reclaiming a piece of personal property. That alone was suffi? cient to stimulate Batkin’s curiosity and cause the cyborg to leave the proxy in place.
“So you’re back,” Tragg said infl?ectionlessly.
“Yeah,” the prisoner said. “And I’m risking my life to come here.”
Tragg shrugged. “So tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll take care of you. . . . It’s as simple as that.”
“No,” the other man insisted. “It isn’t as simple as that. Let’s say I spill my guts. . . . How can I be sure that you’ll uphold your end of the bargain?
“Because I said I would,” the overseer answered coldly.
“And there’s something else to consider as well. . . . You’re beginning to piss me off. And you’ve seen what can happen to someone who pisses me off. So quit screwing around, or I’ll whip the information out of you!”
There was a pause, as if the prisoner was considering all of his options. Batkin wished he could see the expression on the man’s face, but he was afraid, to move, lest he reveal the spy-eye’s presence. “Okay,” the prisoner replied. “How
’bout this? You make the arrangements to put me aboard a Thraki supply ship, all expenses paid to Starfall, and I’ll tell you what you need to know just before I step aboard.”
“Why should I?” Tragg countered. “I can fi?gure it out on my own. . . . Or torture it out of you.”
The POW laughed harshly. “If you could fi?gure it out on your own, you would have by now. That’s why you interview prisoners every night—trying to fi?gure out what if anything they’re hiding. But it hasn’t worked has it?
“As for torture. . . . Well, that’s not very reliable is it?
Because people will say anything to stop the pain. And I’m no exception. So why make things diffi?cult? Schedule the fl?ight, I’ll give you what you want, and you can take credit for it. That should be worth something. Something big.”
“Okay,” the overseer agreed. “But remember this. . . . If what you tell me is false, the ship you leave on will be intercepted off Starfall, and you will be brought back to Jericho. And that, my friend, is when the real suffering will begin.”
“You’ll be satisfi?ed,” the prisoner promised confi?dently.
“Very satisfi?ed. Now, with your permission, I think it would be best if I left.”
The chair made a scraping sound as the prisoner pushed it back and came to his feet. When he turned, the light illuminated the left side of his face, and Batkin was stunned by what he saw. Because the man who intended to betray not only President Marcott Nankool, but the entire Confederacy, was none other than Secretary for Foreign Affairs Roland Hooks! The same man with whom he had once shaken hands . . . A man who was posing as someone else, because had the mercenary been aware of the offi?cial’s true identity, the rest would have been obvious. That was important information, or would be, if the operative could pass it to the right people. That was when the Sheen robot sent a warning to the nearest guard tower, a Ramanthian guard swiveled a spotlight onto Tragg’s roof, and Batkin was bathed in white light. A machine gun stuttered, the cyborg felt a slug rip through his electromechanical body, and alarms began to bleat. PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
A thin sheen of perspiration covered Kay Wilmot’s naked back as she performed oral sex on Vice President Jakov while a Hobar Systems 7300 pleasure robot serviced the diplomat from behind. The androids were sold in a variety of confi?gurations, but this particular unit was chrome-plated, sculpted to resemble a very athletic human male, and equipped with an extremely large, internally heated sex organ. The diplomat had experienced two powerful orgasms by then. A fact not lost on the vice president, who delighted in watching the machine dominate the same woman he was dominating, because sex and power were very nearly the same thing where the politician was concerned. The android placed both of its padded hands on Wilmot’s generously proportioned buttocks and began to squeeze them. Just the sight of that was suffi?cient to bring Jakov to climax. His eyelids fl?uttered as wave after wave of pleasure surged through his body, and he uttered a grunt of satisfaction.
In spite of the physical pleasure she had experienced, Wilmot was quite conscious of other aspects of the situation, including the fact that the things her lover demanded of her had grown increasingly kinky since the beginning of their sexual relationship. And now, with the introduction of the 7300, she was beginning to worry about what might lie ahead. The robot, which could simulate an orgasm, timed its ejaculation to match the human’s and withdrew as the bio bod did. Then, consistent with a signal from Jakov, the android returned to the closet, where it would remain until summoned again. The human lovers lay in each other’s arms. “So,” Jakov said lazily, “who performed best? The robot or me?”
“You did,” Wilmot lied.
“I doubt it,” the vice president countered contentedly.
“But it doesn’t matter so long as you had a good time.”
“Which I did,” Wilmot assured him.
“Good,” the vice president said agreeably. “And you deserve it. Especially after engineering the brilliant deal with ex-ambassador Orno. Who knows? Nankool could be dead by now.”
