“There may be a semantic difficulty,” the other repeated. “Different astronomical concepts.”
“Why should there be?” asked the Old Man. “That slug is using borrowed language throughout. He knows what his host knows; we’ve proved that.” Nevertheless he turned back and started a different tack. “See here—you savvy the solar system; is your planet inside it or outside it?”
I hesitated, then answered, “All planets are ours.”
The Old Man pulled at his lip. “I wonder,” he mused, “just what you mean by that?” He went on, “Never mind; you can claim the whole damned universe; I want to know where your nest is? Where is your home base? Where do your ships come from?”
I could not have told him and did not; I sat silent.
Before I could anticipate it he reached behind me with the rod; I felt one smashing blow of pain, then it was gone. “Now, talk, damn you! What planet? Mars? Venus? Jupiter? Saturn? Uranus? Neptune? Pluto? Kalki?” As he ticked them off, I saw them—and I have never been as far off Earth as the space stations. When he came to the right one, I knew—and the thought was instantly snatched from me.
“Speak up,” he went on, “or feel the whip.”
I heard myself saying, “None of them. Our home is much farther away. You could never find it.”
He looked past my shoulders and then into my eyes. “I think you are lying. I think you need some juice to keep you honest.”
“No, no!”
“No harm to try.” Slowly he thrust the rod past me, behind me. I knew the answer again and was about to give it, when something grabbed my throat. Then the pain started.
It did not stop. I was being torn apart; I tried to talk, to tell, anything to stop the pain—but the hand still clutched my throat and I could not.
Through a clearing blur of pain I saw the Old Man’s face, shimmering and floating. “Had enough?” he asked. “Ready to talk?” I started to answer, but I choked and gagged. I saw him reach out again with the rod.
I burst into pieces and died.
They were leaning over me. Someone said, “He’s coming around. Watch him; he might be violent.”
The Old Man’s face was over mine, his expression worried. “Are you all right, son?” he asked anxiously. I turned my face away.
“One side, please,” another voice said. “Let me give him the injection.”
“Will his heart stand it?”
“Certainly—or I wouldn’t give it to him.” The speaker knelt by me, took my arm, and gave me a shot. He stood up, looked at his hands, then wiped them on his shorts; they left bloody streaks.
I felt strength flowing back into me. “Gyro”, I thought absently, or something like it. Whatever it was, it was pulling me back together. Shortly I sat up, unassisted.
I was still in the cage room, directly in front of that damnable chair. The cage, I noticed without interest, was closed again. I started to get to my feet; the Old Man stepped forward and gave me a hand. I shook him off. “Don’t touch me!”
“Sorry,” he answered, then snapped, “Jones! You and Ito—get the litter. Take him back to the infirmary. Doc, you go along.”
“Certainly.” The man who had given me the shot stepped forward and started to take my arm. I drew away from him.
“Keep your hands off me!”
He stopped. “Get away from me—all of you. Just leave me alone.” The doctor looked at the Old Man, who shrugged, then motioned them all back. Alone, I went to the door, through it, and on out through the outer door into the passageway.
I paused there, looked at my wrists and ankles and decided that I might as well go back to the infirmary. Doris would take care of me, I was sure, and then maybe I could sleep. I felt as if I had gone fifteen rounds and lost every one of them.
“Sam, Sam!”
I looked up; I knew that voice. Mary hurried up and was standing before me, looking at me with great sorrowful eyes. “I’ve been waiting,” she said. “Oh, Sam! What have they done to you?” Her voice was so choked that I could hardly understand her.