'Absolute nonsense, I say. He is foxing us.'
'Shhhh - I don't think so. Not now. He is deep under. He is talking out of his subconscious now.'
'Alb bronze axe jade - warrior horse tharn - tharn - the power gone - the power gone - '
'This is no good at all to us. A waste of time.'
'Maybe not. Get it all down anyway - you can use it as a guide when you question him again under torture.'
'Not me. That is their job.'
'Shut up, man, and do your job. Copy down every word he says.'
Blade groaned deeply. 'I slaveface am - the gorge - towers and the gorge - rain pink sun never - kill the head - head ball bouncing into wine - poison redbreard dru drusilla did always did cold lady maiden could suck suck suck life from suck me - '
Voice, querulous: 'This is a failure. No point in going on with it. I am not interested in his fantasy life - I want hard facts. We may as well stop now. How long before he comes out of it?'
'Several hours. Four or five at least. And I wouldn't call it a complete failure. You have some interesting notes.'
'Hah! That's because you aren't in my shoes. You don't have to face them with a dozen pages of insane raving. No - I shall just have to do it the hard way. It's all laid on. I only have to make a phone call.'
A thick blanket of purple fleece settled over Richard Blade. He smiled and slept. The voices were gone, he was alone in the universe. Peace. Sleep.
Blade came awake feeling weak and sick. Still on the table, still bound to it, still naked though the blanket had been tossed over him. He stared at the oriel window. Dark outside.
A man cleared his throat. Blade swiveled his eyes. It was the same guard, the silent man with the pistol, sitting on a camp chair and nodding a bit, fighting sleep, the pistol drooping into his lap.
Blade felt a surge in his bowels. This would be it, then. The time was as good as any. Night. Sleepy guards and himself coming weak and dazed out of a powerful drug. They would not expect him to give trouble. That might give him just the slight edge he needed.
He strained up against the straps and chains. 'I have to go to the bathroom again. Hurry up. And I feel sick - like I'm going to vomit any second. You want me to do it here?'
The man stood up. He had been expecting this. He waved the pistol at Blade. 'Hold it, mate. Just hold on to it for a ullet few bleeding seconds.'
He went to the door and tapped on it, then came back to cover Blade with the pistol. A minute or so later the other two men came in, one with a pistol and the other with the familiar Sten gun. Blade noted that the Sten was on safety, the cocking handle in the lock slot. He grinned at the Sten gunner. 'That thing hasn't blown up in your face yet?' His answer was a grunt.
They herded him along the same passage and over the cobbled area to the toilet cubby. A fine rain greased the cobbles and it was so dark that Blade could not see the brick fence to his left. Coming back it would be to his right. He didn't care about the gate. He would have no time for gates.
As they approached the toilet he began to pray silently that the single rusty razor blade would be on the washbowl. He needed it. He was planning on it. He had spotted it on his previous trip and now all his hopes of success hung on it still being there.
It was there. As he squatted and let himself spew he cast an eye at it. Ancient, eaten with rust, staining the already dirty porcelain, it might have lain there for years. Awaiting this moment.
Blade strained and groaned. He put his head in his hands. 'I'm sick at both ends,' he complained. 'What did those bastards shoot into me, anyway?'
One man grinned. Another spat. All regarded him like a clinical specimen. Nothing to do with them. They did their job, got paid, and asked no questions. And yet the rhetorical question had value. Patter. Patter to distract the audience.
Blade put his head in his hands again, groaned louder, and' peered down between his legs at the toilet bowl. Nothing. Panic flared in him. Suppose he didn't pass it? Suppose it was tucked away somewhere in his guts and refused to come out? Then he must find another way.
There it was. A shiny aluminum capsule that shielded yet another inner capsule. Between the two capsules was a thin buffer of acid. Acid that would be activated by air.
Now the tricky part. His three guards were becoming impatient.
Blade got partially up, groaned hideously, then sank to the seat again. He tried to smile at the men. They stared blankly back at him.
'Be just half a mo,' Blade said. 'Ohhhhhh - now my guts are cramping. Ohhhhhh - '
He raised, turned, put his hands on the sides of the bowl and began to retch miserably. It was a convincing performance. One of the men said, 'He is a sick bloke, all right. Glad it ain't me.'
Blade reached down into his own excreta and palmed the capsule. Done. He retched for another minute, acting out his part, then staggered weakly to the washbowl. The razor blade lay waiting. This was also tricky. The capsule was the size of three aspirins - he had swallowed it with oil - and he held it between his left thumb and first finger as he washed his hands. His guards watched.
Blade retched again, bent over the bowl, groaned. He brushed the razor blade into the bowl and waited. Had they seen it?
'Get a jump on,' one of them said. 'You think we want to fool with you all the bleeding night?'
Blade washed his hands. He gashed the thin shell of the capsule with the razor and dropped the capsule and blade
