Who would have believed, for instance, that if he wished to do so - which he didn't - he could here and now shit a bomb?

The men watched. Blade put on his act. Thinking hard. By the time the man with the Sten got impatient and told him to come off the throne, Blade had an idea how he was going to defeat the truth serum. How he was going to try to defeat it. Tell them the truth! A carefully edited, skillfully confused truth. They would never believe him. But could he manage it?

He washed his hands in a thin stream of rusty cold water, donned the blanket again and was hurried back to the long bare room. As they crossed the cobbled area he heard the church clock booming somewhere in the distance.

There were two masked men awaiting him now. The new arrival was short and round, not so well dressed as the taller man, and was pulling a pair of rubber gloves over broad spatulate fingers as Blade entered. A doctor, Blade thought. Near the table was an old tea cart with an array of bottles and trays and a box of cotton fluffs. A short piece of rubber cord and three glistening hypodermic needles. Ampoules of some dark fluid.

Blade firmed his mind for the ordeal.

Concentrate, Blade! Tell them the truth. Easter that way. But only part of the truth. Tell them what they cannot possibly believe. Confuse them, gain time, no real harm done if you kill them in the end.

Cold of alcohol on his arm. Frosty ring. Nice of them to do that. Rubber tourniquet twisting and binding. The sly incisive bite of the needle. Intruder in the vein. Pain slight. Dark liquid flowing into his big body. Flowing - flowing - flowing -

He was in a spinning coracle on a blue-black sea. Far ahead on jutting white rock a phallic lighthouse.

Voice from lighthouse: "Can you hear me, Mr. Blade?"

"Yes."

His own voice? Amplified and distorted so? He must believe it. Believe in himself.

"Good. Can you understand what I am saying?"

"Yes."

Summon now all will and strength. Fight. Concentrate every last bit of power, brain, guts. Cling. Hold on.

"We know, Mr. Blade, that some new installation has been built under the Tower of London. We think it has something to do with MI6. Is this true?"

Truth still easier. "No."

"Come, Mr. Blade, come now. You must tell the truth, you know. You cannot help but tell the truth. Now again - what has MI6 to do with the new construction beneath the Tower?"

"Nothing."

So sly. So true. Blade laughed and laughed in the dreamland where he roamed. Truth paid. Best policy. MI6 didn't have anything to do with the Tower or the computer. It was MI6A. But they didn't know about - about - about -

Voices now. Not addressed to him. One voice a bit irritated.

"It isn't working. Are you sure you gave him the right dosage?"

"Positive. He is a big man, tremendously powerful. Sometimes it takes a bit longer with that sort. Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

"For what we're paying you had better know!"

The cave was huge and dark. Bats floated like bad dreams. Dim light. A hag on a throne of stalagmites. Crone. Crone crooning. Sibyl.

Voice from high vault of cave: "What is hidden in the Tower, Blade?"

Must answer. "Machine."

Chuckles. Nudges. Nods. He could not see them. He felt them.

Coaxing voice: "What kind of a machine?"

Must lie now. Fire exploded in cave. Flames writhed to form letters. LIE. No good. Couldn't. Drug too powerful.

"Comp her."

Silence. Respite. Blade sailed a yellow sea.

Voice: "Repeat that, Blade. Try to speak more distinctly. What kind of a machine?"

"Pute her."

Voice off stage, sibilant, triumphant: "Computer! That's what he is saying. Go on. Keep after him."

Voice: "A computer? Explain that to me, please. What sort of computer? What does it do? How are you connected with it?"

Tell truth. Sleep now. Leave alone. No! Lie a bit. Lie - lie - Truthful lie. Try - try -

"Skull wire. Wire skull. Explode brain and send out - out - all brain molecular structure torn, scrambled, put back in new place - new place - go Alb see Taken - kill Horsa - Horsa - "

Voice, bitter: "This is sheer nonsense! He's talking about horses. And that bit about the computers doesn't make much sense, either. You must do better."

"Give it time. The drug is just beginning to work. And you mustn't expect miracles. He is resisting the drug - I have never before seen such resistance!"

"You mean he could be lying? Even drugged?"

"I don't know, The possibility is there. I told you not to expect miracles with a subject like Blade. All you can do is make notes and try to sort it out later."

Voice: "Tell us more about what the computer does, Blade. Do you like to work with it? Does it make you feel good? Talk, Blade. Just talk. Empty your brain. You will feel so much better then and you can sleep for a long time. Talk - talk - "

"Pute her. Brain wire. Fly and sink - pain - hurt - pain - no clothes and cold find sword axe - wall so long never ends and did not believe but was so and not true for did end and Mongs and Caths fight fight forever and big cannon shoot and - "

"Sheer gibberish!"

"Sshhhh - you never know."

"Heads falling all time like tree apples - love perfume smell death of women - women - thighs and breasts rub together thighs so silky and smooth hair gone and skin like lemons and lemurs - ha-hah - that is good - lemurs and lemons - axe-redbeard and Beata come cage - I - I - Taleen - I - "

"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 \bullet 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.