The Dark Design by Phillip Jose Farmer

“You’re guilty of premeditated murder. I can have you shot, and I may do it Unless you tell me everything.”

She waited. He glared steadily at her.

“We know about the little spheres on the forebrains of Firebrass and Obrenova.”

That had pierced him, had struck something sensitive. His skin paled, and he grimaced.

“Is there a sphere on your brain?”

He groaned, and he said, “I was X-rayed. Do you think Firebrass would have taken me along if there had been one?”

“I don’t know,” Jill said. “He accepted Obrenova. Why would he have accepted her and rejected you?”

Thorn merely shook his head.

“Look. If it’s necessary, I’ll order that Graves remove the top of your skull and take a look at your brain.”

“That would be a waste of time,” he said. “I don’t have any such thing inside me.”

“I think you’re lying. What is the purpose of that sphere?”

Silence.

“You do know, don’t you?”

Cyrano said, “Where were you headed for when you stole the helicopter?”

Thorn bit his lip, then said, “I presume that you didn’t get into the tower?”

Jill hesitated. Should she tell him about Piscator? Would that give him some sort of advantage? She could not imagine what it could be, but then she did not know the location of any piece in this jigsaw puzzle.

She said, “One man did get into it.”

Thorn quivered, and he became even paler.

“One? Who was that?”

“I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me what this is all about.”

Thorn’s deep chest rose, and he let out air slowly.

“I won’t say another word about this until we get to the Mark Twain. I’ll talk to Sam Clemens. Until then, not a word. You can open my skull, if you will. But that would be cruel, and it might kill me, and it would be totally unnecessary.”

Jill motioned to Cyrano to come with her into the next room. When they were out of Thorn’s sight, she said, “Is there an X-ray machine aboard the Mark Twain?”

Cyrano shrugged and said, “I do not remember. But we can determine that as soon as we ge ‘into radio contact with the boat.”

They returned to the foot of Thorn’s bed. He stared at them for a minute. A struggle was obviously taking place in him. Finally, as if he hated himself for having to ask, he said, “Did that man come back?”

“What does that mean to you?”

Thorn looked as if he’d like to say something. Instead, he smiled.

“Very well,” Jill said. “We are going to the boat. I’ll talk to you when we get there, unless you change your mind before then.”

The checkout tests of the equipment consumed an hour. The ropes were cast off and drawn into the dirigible. The guards and the rope handlers came aboard. With Cyrano in the pilot’s seat, the Parseval rose, its propellers swiveled upward to give it additional lift. Water ballast was discharged to compensate for the loss of the valved-off hydrogen. The updraft around the tower lifted the ship higher than was desired, and so Cyrano sent it back down, headed toward the great hold through which they entered.

Jill stood at the windscreen and stared into the fog. “So long, Piscator,” she murmured. “We’ll be back.”

The wind hurled the vessel through the hole, spitting it out, as Cyrano said, as if it were a rotten piece of meat from the mouth of a giant. Or, he added, as if it were a baby overeager to be born, shot out from the womb of a mother who couldn’t wait to get rid of her nine-months’ burden.

The Frenchman sometimes overstrained his metaphors and similes.

The clear air and the bright sun and the green vegetation made them feel like bursting into song. Cyrano, grinning, said, “If I were not on duty, I would dance! I do not contemplate returning to that dismal place with any pleasure.”

Aukuso had begun transmitting the ship’s call letters as soon as it had gained a high altitude. Not until an hour had passed, however, did he report that he had made contact with the Mark Twain.