By now even Borowitz was disturbed, agitated, unnerved. He sat down in his central chair, seemed to shrink into himself a little. ‘You two,’ he growled at his subordinates. ‘Are you all right? You, Mikhail – is there any puke left in you? If so, stand well away.’ (This to the one on the left, whose nostrils were moist, flaring jet-black pits in a face of chalk.) ‘And you, Andrei – are you done now with your bending and ventilating?’
The one on the right opened his mouth but said nothing, keeping his wet eyes on the screen, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The other said: ‘Let me see the beginning at least. But I would prefer not to throw up. Also, when all is done, I would be grateful for an explanation. You may say what you like of that one in there, Comrade General, but I personally believe he should be put down!’
Borowitz nodded. ‘You shall have your explanation in good time,’ he rumbled. ‘Meanwhile I agree with you – I, too, would prefer not to throw up!’
Dragosani had taken up what looked like a hollow silver chisel in one hand, and a small copper-jacketed mallet in the other. He placed the chisel in the centre of the corpse’s forehead, brought the mallet sharply down and drove the chisel home. As the mallet bounced following the blow, so a little brain fluid was vented through the chisel’s hollow stem. That was enough for Mikhail; he gulped once, then returned to his corner and stood there trembling, his face averted. The man called Andrei remained where he was, stood there as if frozen, but Borowitz noted how he clenched and unclenched his fists where they hung at his sides.
Now Dragosani stood back from the corpse, crouched down, stared fixedly at the chisel where it stood up from the pierced cranium. He nodded slowly, then sprang erect and stepped to the table with the case of instruments. Dropping the mallet on to the tough floor tiles, he snatched up a slender steel straw and dropped it expertly, with hardly a glance, into the chisel’s cavity. The fine steel tube sank slowly, pneumatically down through the body of the chisel until just its mouthpiece projected.
‘Mouthpiece!’ Andrei suddenly croaked, turning away and stumbling blindly across the floor of the observation cell. ‘My God, my God – the mouthpiece!’
Borowitz closed his eyes. Tough as he was he could not watch. He had seen it all before and remembered it only too well.
Moments passed: Mikhail in his corner, trembling -Andrei across the room, his back to the screen – and their superior with his eyes tightly shut, squeezed down in his chair. Then –
The scream that came over the speaker was one to shatter the strongest nerves, indeed a scream to raise the dead. It was full of horror, full of monstrous knowledge, full of … outrage? Yes, outrage – the cry of a wounded carnivore, a vengeful beast. And hot on its heels – chaos!
As the scream subsided Borowitz’s eyes shot open, his heavy eyebrows forming a peaked tent over them. For an instant he sat there, a startled owl, nerves jumping, fingers clawing at the arms of his chair. Then he gave a hoarse shout, threw up an arm before his face, hurled his heavy body backward. His chair crashed over, allowing him to roll clear, protected by the chair to the left, as the screen caved inward in a shower of glass and small, buckling strips of lead. A large hole had appeared in the screen, with the legs of the steel chair from the other room protruding half-way through. The chair was snatched back out of sight – and again driven forward, smashing out the rest of the small panes and sending fragments of glass flying everywhere.
‘Swine!’ Dragosani’s shriek came from both the speaker and the shattered screen. ‘Oh, you swine, Gregor Borowitz! You poisoned him – an agent to rot his brain – and now, you bastard, now I have tasted that same poison’
From behind the outraged, hate-filled voice came Dragosani himself, to stand outlined for a moment in a frame of jagged, dangling glass teeth, before hurling himself across the table and tumbled chairs at Borowitz where he floundered on the floor. In his hand something glittered, silver against the grey of his flesh.