I don’t know how long, exactly. The only way I had of measuring time was by the internal clocks of my belly, bladder and bowels. By their count, that first round of questioning went on forever. I told the glass machines everything there was to tell about the Scuzzhawks, Green-glass taking it all down with his microphones and lenses. That wasn’t the end of it. Then Pinkie switched without a pause to questions about the precise nature of their smuggling operation, and what “smuggling” meant in the context of Earth’s more or less independent political entities called “nations,” each with its own laws about what was forbidden or taxed. And then it wanted a detailed catalogue of all the sorts of things that were smuggled-dope, money for laundering, weapons-and then what the weapons were used for. Which led to many more questions on some large subjects. Crime. Terrorism. Why such aberrations were permitted to continue when they obviously interfered with the orderly workings of government and commerce.
Then, without warning, the lights went out in the camera lenses. The green-glass machine that had been operating them turned to the wall and a door opened. And the pink one said, “Go through there and attend to your biological needs. We will resume when you have finished.”
I hesitated. Perhaps I hesitated a moment too long, because my headache was still slowing my reflexes, but the machine wasn’t patient. It reached out toward me in a way I didn’t like. I turned and hurried to the doorway.
CHAPTER FIVE
The biological-needs room was a twin of the one I’d just left: bare walls of the same yellow chinaware, no windows, no pictures. The big difference was that there were three doors instead of two-all securely locked against my immediate attempts to open them-and in addition to the chinaware chest against the wall (also unopenable by me), there was a pile of food on a low chinaware table.
The food at least was familiar. I had seen it all before. In fact, I had seen a lot of it. We had been living on identically that same grub for months, me and Pat, in all her copies, and Rosaleen Artzybachova and Jimmy Lin and Martin Delasquez. Apart from a few unfamiliar and unappetizing ropy twists of something smelly and purplish, it was the food Dopey had copied for us when we were his prisoners, duplicated from the stores on the Starlab orbiter we had been snatched from. Apples. Corn chips. Heaps of dried or irradiated meals in cans and jars and cartons, every one of which I was totally sick of. When I first saw that pile of rations it made me suddenly aware that I was, as a matter of fact, pretty hungry. When I realized it was the same boring stuff I’d eaten much too much of already, a lot less so.
There were a couple of jugs of water beside the stack of rations. I took a swig out of one of them-it tasted flat, as though it had been distilled-but while that relieved one biological need, it just made another one worse.
I had to pee.
I looked doubtfully at the floor. When we were captives of Dopey and his Beloved Leaders, our cell had this trick floor that doubled as a sewage-removal system. Any waste that hit the floor was absorbed and carried away without leaving even a stain. Even human waste.
This canary-yellow porcelain stuff was something else again. It didn’t look promising. However, nature was not to be denied. I selected a corner of the room and let fly; and when I was through I watched, without much optimism, to see if the urine would seep away.
It didn’t.
I said, “Shit.” All right, that’s a trivial thing. But it was one more damn blow, on top of a lot of others. You have to remember that, just hours before, my future had seemed really bright: home, safe, with the dear Pat Adcock I had just discovered I loved.
But I wasn’t home. I wasn’t safe. Pat was God knew where, and I was worse off than ever. Literally, now I didn’t even have a pot to piss in.
So I did the only thing I could do. I fell back on my Bureau training.
I took a deep breath. I crammed some corn chips into my mouth, popped open a random jar (chicken a la king, it was, and really unpleasant in its cold and slimy state). I looked around the room to see if any curious eyes were observing me-didn’t matter if they were, of course-and I began to tap systematically at the walls and chest and doors.
Now, why did I do that?
It wasn’t out of any real hope. I didn’t see that I had an ice cube’s chance in Hell of ever getting back to NBI headquarters in Arlington with whatever odd bits of information I might learn through all this poking and prying. I did it anyway, because it was my job.
Back in basic training, the meanest of my drill instructors had explained that to us, while we were lined up, as sweating and stinking and sodden as we were, right after the obstacle course and just before the five-kilometer run. DIs rarely show sympathy.
This one had none at all. “What are you, tired? You don’t know what tired is yet. You assholes are gonna be a lot worse off than this before you’ve put your twenty years in! Times you’re gonna be exhausted and shitting your pants, but that don’t let you off nothing. Whatever happens, whatever the bad guys do to you, you do your job. If they beat the piss out of you, if they cut off your balls and gouge out your fuckin’ eyes, you don’t forget what I’m saying. You ain’t paid to give up. You’re paid to keep on doing what you’re missioned to do, so, if there’s a miracle and you get out alive, you can report on every goddam thing you see and hear. Any questions?”
I was stupider in those days. I said, “Sir! How are we going to see anything if they’ve gouged out our eyes?”
She had an answer for that. She said, “You! Fall down and gimme thirty!”
So-having nothing promising to do-I did what I coulddo.
I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to get out of this place, and find some way to get back to the transit machine, and zap myself back home. I didn’t quite see how I was going to arrange that, but the first step was to gather information.
So I tapped the walls and tried the doors every way I could think of. The doors stayed locked. They were perfectly ordinary doors that swung open on hinges the way a door should do-nothing exotic or super high-tech, except that they didn’t seem to have any handles. However I pushed or kicked them, they didn’t move. Neither did the lid of the chest, when I went back to that. I didn’t give up. I rummaged through the pile of food to see if there
