Hazeltine raised an aspen hand. “You don’t know–I–I’m
deep-conditioned.”
“By Terra?”
“Yes, of course, of course. I can’t be ‘probed … without my mind being
… destroyed–”
Flandry sighed again. “Come, now. We don’t deep-condition our agents
against giving information to their own people, except occasional
supersecrets. After all, a ‘probe can bring forth useful items the
conscious mind has forgotten. Don’t fear if you’re honest, son. The
lightest treatment will clear you, and the team will go no further.”
“But–oh, no-o-o–”
Abruptly Hazeltine cast himself on his knees before Flandry. Words burst
from his mouth like the sweat from his skin. “Yes, then, yes, I’ve been
working for Merseia. Not bought, nothing like that, I thought the future
was theirs, should be theirs, not this walking corpse of an
Empire–Merciful angels, can’t you see their way’s the hope of humankind
too?–” Flandry blew smoke to counteract the reek of terror. “I’ll
cooperate. I will, I will. I wasn’t evil, Dad. I had my orders about
you, yes, but I hated what I did, and Aycharaych doubted you’d really be
killed, and I knew I was supposed to let that girl be bought first by
somebody else before I told you but when we happened to arrive in time I
couldn’t make myself wait–” He caught Flandry by the knees. “Dad, in
Mother’s name, let my mind live!”
Flandry shoved the clasp aside, rose, stepped a couple of meters off,
and answered, “Sorry. I could never trust you not to leave stuff buried
in your confession that could rise to kill or enslave too many more
young girls.” For a few seconds he watched the crouched, spastic shape.
“I’m under stim and heavy trank,” he said. “A piece of machinery. I’ve a
far-off sense of how this will feel later on, but mostly that’s
abstract. However … you have till morning, son. What would you like
while you wait? Ill do my best to provide it.”
Hazeltine uncoiled. On his feet, he howled, “You cold devil, at least
I’ll kill you first! And then myself!”
He charged. The rage which doubled his youthful strength was not amok;
he came as a karate man, ready to smash a ribcage and pluck out a heart.
Flandry swayed aside. He passed a hand near the other.
Razor-edged, the lid of the cigarette case left a shallow red gash in
the right cheek. Hazeltine whirled for a renewed assault. Flandry gave
ground. Hazeltine followed, boxing him into a corner. Then the knockout
potion took hold. Hazeltine stumbled, reeled, flailed his arms, mouthed,
and caved in.
Flandry sought the intercom. “Come remove the prisoner,” he directed.