Arvardan smiled in her direction. A queer, spasmodic smile, for it was with a vast strain that he staggered to his feet and remained there, gasping.
Balkis laughed softly. With unhurried steps he shortened the distance between himself and the Sirian archaeologist to nothing. With an equally unhurried gesture he rested a soft hand upon the broad chest of the other and shoved.
With splintering arms that would not respond to Arvardan’s demand for a warding motion, with stagnant trunk muscles that could not adjust the body’s balance at more than snail speed, Arvardan toppled.
Pola gasped. Lashing her own rebellious flesh and bone, she descended from her particular bench slowly—so slowly.
Balkis let her crawl toward Arvardan.
“Your lover,” he said. “Your strong Outsider lover. Run to him, girl! Why do you wait? Clasp your hero tightly and forget in his arms that he steams in the sweat and blood of a billion martyred Earthmen. And there he lies, bold and valiant—brought to Earth by the gentle push of an Earthman’s hand.”
Pola was on her knees beside him now, her fingers probing beneath the hair for blood or the deadly softness of crushed bone. Arvardan’s eyes opened slowly and his lips formed a “Never mind!”
“He’s a coward,” said Pola, “who would fight a paralyzed man and boast his victory. Believe me, darling, few Earthmen are like that.”
“I know it, or you would not be an Earthwoman.”
The Secretary stiffened. “As I said, all lives here are forfeit, but, nevertheless, can be bought. Are you interested in the price?”
Pola said proudly, “In our case, you would be. That I know.”
“Ssh, Pola.” Arvardan had not yet recovered his breath entirely. “What are you proposing?”
“Oh,” said Balkis, “you are willing to sell yourself? As I would be, for instance? I, a vile Earthman?”
“You know best what you are,” retorted Arvardan. “As for the rest, I am not selling myself; I am buying her.”
“I refuse to be bought,” said Pola.
“Touching,” grated the Secretary. “He stoops to our females, our Earthie-squaws—and can still play-act at sacrifice.”
“What are you proposing?” demanded Arvardan.
“This. Obviously, word of our plans has leaked out. How it got to Dr. Shekt is not difficult to see, but how it got to the Empire is puzzling. We would like to know, therefore, just what the Empire does know. Not what you have learned, Arvardan, but what the Empire now knows.”
“I am an archaeologist and not a spy,” bit out Arvardan. “I don’t know anything at all about what the Empire knows—but I hope they know a damned lot.”
“So I imagine. Well, you may change your mind. Think, all of you.”
Throughout, Schwartz had contributed nothing; nor had he raised his eyes.
The Secretary waited, then said, perhaps a trifle savagely, “Then I’ll outline the price to you of your non-co-operation. It will not be simply death, since I am quite certain that all of you are prepared for that unpleasant and inevitable eventuality. Dr. Shekt and the girl, his daughter, who, unfortunately for herself, is implicated to a deadly extent, are citizens of Earth. Under the circumstances, it will be most appropriate to have both subjected to the Synapsifier. You understand, Dr. Shekt?”
The physicist’s eyes were pools of pure horror.
“Yes, I see you do,” said Balkis. “It is, of course, possible to allow the Synapsifier to damage brain tissue just sufficiently to allow the production of an acerebral imbecile. It is a most disgusting state: one in which you will have to be fed, or starve; be cleaned, or live in dung; be shut up, or remain a study in horror to all who see. It may be a lesson to others in the great day that is coming.
“As for you”—and the Secretary turned to Arvardan—“and your friend Schwartz, you are Imperial citizens, and therefore suitable for an interesting experiment. We have never tried our concentrated fever virus on you Galactic dogs. It would be interesting to show our calculations correct. A small dose, you see, so that death is not quick. The disease might work its way to the inevitable over a period of a week, if we dilute the injection sufficiently. It will be very painful.”
And now he paused and watched them through slitted eyes. “All that,” he said, “is the alternative to a few well-chosen words at the present time. How much does the Empire know? Have they other agents active at the present moment? What are their plans, if any, for counteraction?”
Dr. Shekt muttered, “How do we know that you won’t have us killed anyway, once you have what you want of us?”
“You have my assurance that you will die horribly if you refuse. You will have to gamble on the alternative. What do you say?”
“Can’t we have time?”
“Isn’t that what I’m giving you now? Ten minutes have passed since I entered, and I am still listening. . . . Well, have you anything to say? What, nothing? Time will not endure forever, you must realize. Arvardan, you still knot your muscles. You think perhaps you can reach me before I can draw my blaster. Well, what if you can? There are hundreds outside, and my plans will continue without me. Even your separate modes of punishment will continue without me.
“Or perhaps you, Schwartz. You killed our agent. It was you, was it not? Perhaps you think you can kill me?”
For the first time Schwartz looked at Balkis. He said coldly, “I can, but I won’t.”
“That is kind of you.”
“Not at all. It is very cruel of me. You say yourself that there are things worse than simple death.”
Arvardan found himself suddenly staring at Schwartz in a vast hope.
18
Duel!
Schwartz’s mind was whirling. In a queer, hectic way he felt at ease. There was a piece of him that seemed in absolute control of the situation, and more of him that could not believe that. Paralysis had been applied later to him than to the others. Even Dr. Shekt was sitting up, while he himself could just
