Say it sharply, briskly.

"Quiller." Not bad.

"And your first name?"

First names. Sympathy. Only one answer: bollocks.

Said nothing.

Think clearly. If it were pentothal it wouldn't be too much to cope with. He'd start his questions any minute now, and catch me in the twilight before sleep, off guard, then question me again in the twilight of waking.

Any more clear thoughts? Fabian. I'd heard that name, in the medical world. Dr. Fabian… someone. One of the top kick psychoanalysts. Trust Phoenix to use the best.

The light was spangled on the gold face of the watch and a twin spark echoed from the inlay of the console table.

"What's your name? " the quiet voice asked.

Said nothing.

He was going to miss. I was going out slowly and there wouldn't be much time to get anything coherent if he didn't start soon. Might not be pentothal. Think clearly: what do they want to know? First, my set-up, location of Local Control Berlin, names of operators, current code-systems, so forth. Second and more vital, the extent of my knowledge about Phoenix. Third, the exact nature of my present mission. They wouldn't ask me directly. It would be the classic technique of the leading-question aimed at forcing me to dodge and lie and cover up, so that a mere hesitation would give me away. The technique was difficult for extracting names.

"Inga."

My breath hissed and I heard it.

Red sector. I was going under. It had only been a few seconds since he'd asked "What's your name? " Not ten minutes, as it seemed. I'd been concentrating consciously on the need to think clearly (and combat the sedation), and the typical pentothal reaction had begun subconsciously: hidden psychic material was coming to the surface, pushing past all thoughts of danger and reticence and control. And she was there in the twilight, my lean black succuba, uncurling in my mind.

He said without surprise, "Your name is Inga?"

"Yes." Outsmart the bastard.

First onset of doubts: you think you can outsmart this team? A tried and proved narcotic flooding the walls of your will, and a narcoanalyst with an international reputation?

Yes. It had to be yes or nothing.

Eyes were closing. Reaction setting in very fast now so one thing left to be done. She was dominating the id, or I wouldn't have said her name, so let her loose, do what she will, let her queen it over all the other dormant images and see how Oktober would like that. He would have to tell his Fuhrer that he couldn't learn anything about the Quiller bureau but he'd learned all there was to learn about her litheness and lightness and darkness in the still rose room that surprised him, the keys in his face, his poor dying face,

Solly look out!

Elbow slipped. Wink of gold, twin wink of gold, the white of her throat and the men very small, seven small men my name is Quiller and her name is Inga tell you about her tell you all in black so black you long to see the white of her long lean body in black but is she a woman or the life of something dead or still a kid with the stink of burning flesh in the Fuhrerbunker my clever Fabian she's in love with the Fuhrer straddled on the black Skai slabs and rutting with ghosts in the night-beat music, Inga my love my hate, enigma, shadow in body, your body in black and the glass empty to see you again because I have to and have to stroke your skin my love my hated love tell you Fabian you shit I'll tell you tell you tell you!

Better than I'd imagined, or worse, with the bitter taste of the aftermath already souring the sweetness and the scent of her heat, long-reaching and straining, no sound but the sound of our breath, nothing to show for it but the slip of sweat and the writhe of limbs, all heady pleasure and the Damoclean blade: she'd rather do this with a short-arse with a small moustache who's dead and a goof to boot, how's that for your pride, my whoring rake-hell! But take what you can and then get out and no regrets but the stain on the Skai and the stain inyour mind because you swore you'd never try it and now you have and you can never get back to where you were before, clean of her. Lie still, and lie still under me. Dissociate. You are a woman before you are a bloody necrophile, and I've had you where you are a woman and nowhere else. Now get out,,Quiller. Get out. But where will you go?

I was surfacing but everything was mixed as if three or four negatives were superimposed: her face floated in the frame of the console table, the man in front of me had a mane of silver hair and a small dark moustache; the images of the real and unreal were jumbled. She had scratched me. My upper arm was stinging.

Then the doubts came. What was real? Was anything? The faces floated: Pol's, Hengel's, Brand's – they were faces I had seen only once. Or had I seen them, ever? Who was Pol, Hengel, Brand? I must have imagined them; they had come and gone without meaning to me. I began being afraid of being mad.

The gold winked on the watch-face. My arm stung. She had – no! The needle… not her nails. They'd used the hypodermic again while I was under. Stung. The stuff was flowing in my blood now, creeping towards my brain. A tightness on my other arm. Gasping noise. Not Fabian. Pumping up the constrictor. A hand on my pulse – throw it off! No strength.

The chandelier swam in the sky, a million stars.

Panic, then control: anger. Angry because I'd panicked. Time-check time! No go. His arms were by his sides, not folded. Dirty trick. A thought came: think out what the sting means. Steady up or they'll have you, Quiller. Think.

Pattern was: Past – one injection, effective period twenty minutes, soporific, probably pentothal. No memory of interrogation except asking for my name. (Problem: why no interrogation? Immediate amnesia?) Present-surfacing from unconsciousness, memory of dream-copulation with Inga, probable verbal running-commentary, no memory of questions. Future – the effects of the second injection and my reaction to them. Terribly important to work out what technique they were using, and so combat its effects. Or try.

"That was a good sleep you had."

Sound helped vision. I was surfacing very fast now, coming up like a rocket from the depths. This wasn't the normal effect of pentothal. Everything was coming in loud and clear: the light steadied and his face was etched against the mouldings of the ceiling; his eyes were luminous. Heart-beat quickening-chest rising and falling – onset of anxiety -

Dear Christ Iknew now what they'd done!

"You feel more yourself now, Quiller. Tell me how you feel."

"I feel fine." I'd answered before I could stop myself.

So it wasn't pentothal. It was the sleep-kick trick gradual narcosis with sodium-amytal then a shock dose of benzedrine or pervitine to kick the sleeper awake. My brain was so clear that I could remember the exact words the lecturer had used in 1948: the brutal awakening makes the verbal objectivisation of psychic contents most urgent, so that they come into the speech phase with an explosive force hitherto unknown.

My body was shaking and the nerves were tingling as if a network of galvanised wires covered my skin. The light was diamond-bright and the sound of his voice had the clarity of a bell. The strength flowed through my limbs and I wanted to shout with it, with the ecstasy of it, of being so strong. I raised my hand to smash down the chandelier at a blow, and knew that my face had gone slack and stupid because my hand hadn't moved. They'd put straps at the wrists and ankles, knowing how strong I'd be, strong enough to fell ten men. Then the schism came: I was mighty, but powerless to move. I longed to talk but I mustn't. Result of the schism: anxiety. The tongue tumescent and aching for the orgasm of speech that must be held back. Hold back. Allyou've got to do. Hold back!