Ivanhoe Gambit

10

Andre was exhausted. She was grateful to drop Cedric off at Nottingham Castle. Blindfolding him had not been enough, it had finally been necessary to gag him, as well. She had had more than she could stand of his defiant epithets, Athelstane's ceaseless grumbling and Rowena's whining. She had finally ordered them all gagged, although she had to call one of the men over with a hand signal and whisper the command, since she could not imitate De Bracy's voice. The blindfolds served a dual purpose, protecting her masquerade as well as preventing the prisoners from seeing that they were being taken to Nottingham, rather than Torquilstone. Had the prisoners been able to see, they might have realized that she was not De Bracy; something might have given it away.

Taking them had been simple enough. The attack had been a complete surprise and every member of their party save for the three of them had been killed. It was a shame about the palmer who had been traveling with them. A simple pilgrim who had only desired safe passage through the wood, he was an innocent bystander. He had not even been armed. Still, she had her orders. She consoled herself that she had not hit him all that hard; perhaps there was a chance that the blow had not been fatal. It was a small consolation, but it was something.

Her stay at Nottingham had been extremely brief. She had remained there only long enough to see the prisoners turned over to the sheriff's men at arms and to pick up Marcel and change back into her own clothing and armor. Now, with Marcel riding at her side, she was once again the red knight, on her way to Torquilstone. De Bracy would welcome Andre de la Croix, never suspecting that he would be admitting his own murderer to his castle.

She was growing tired of playing ceaseless games of charade. Her breasts were hurting from the cloth that they were tightly swaddled in and she was badly in need of sleep. How long would it go on? How long could it go on? With all the constant intrigue, the pressure was increasing. Her greatest fear was not that she would die, but that she would somehow make a mistake and be caught, that her true sex would be discovered. All things considered, it was remarkable that she had been able to get away with it for so long.

What would they do, she wondered, if they were to find out? Kill her? It was certainly possible. Imprison her? More than likely. On the other hand, it was much more than a case of a peasant passing for a knight. She was a woman passing for a knight and she did not think that the men whom she had deceived would settle for any of the more traditional punishments. No, without doubt, for her they would devise something a bit more imaginative. Men such as Maurice De Bracy and Brian de Bois-Guilbert would never be able to accept that a woman had been able to hold her own with them, to prevail where they could not. There was no question of her ever being allowed to go free so that others might find out. Yes, they might very well kill her in some extremely unpleasant manner, but men had other ways of getting revenge. She thought that death would be preferable.

Most of all, she was concerned about Marcel. Without her, what would become of him? To minimize the risk of discovery, she and Marcel had never stayed very long in any one place, had never accepted service for an extended period of time. It was past time for them to move on, her every instinct told her so. However, there would be no moving on so long as the black knight knew her secret and could expose her at will. The smart thing to do would be to kill him. Only… how?

He claimed to be Coeur de Lion, but she no longer believed him. She did not know exactly why she did not believe him, but she was certain that he wasn't Richard any more than she was. Obviously, he was the very image of the departed king, since Sir Guy accepted him as such and the sheriff had known Richard well, and had at one time been among his men at arms. She had never seen Richard Plantagenet, so she had no way of knowing in what ways he had "changed" since returning from the Third Crusade. Whoever this was, he had thus far kept her secret. Certainly, Sir Guy did not suspect she was a woman. He treated her as an equal and they had spent many nights together, drinking and talking. She wasn't sure who repelled her more, Sir Guy or "Richard."

"He's returned a different man," the sheriff had said to her one night, while they sat before the fireplace drinking ale.

"Different in what ways?" she had said.

"In some ways, he seems more patient," said the sheriff. "And yet, the demons seem to drive him more than ever. I am the older man, and yet at times he seems to speak to me as if I were a child. Indeed, he acts like an older man now." He nodded slowly. "War can age a man like that. War can make men old before their time, or it can turn them into mewling infants. He does not speak of it, you know."

"The Crusade?"

Guy nodded. "I have asked him once or twice what it was like. Each time, he turned the talk to something else. He will not speak of Saladin, of Philip, or of his captivity. He speaks only of winning back his throne and of John's treachery."

"Why does he choose to array himself in black, I wonder?" Andre said.

The sheriff chuckled. "Perhaps to match his thoughts."

"He thinks black thoughts and is driven by demons," Andre said. "You make the king sound like a warlock."

Guy laughed. "A warlock he is, by God, in battle! He fights with the strength of ten!"

"Perhaps he has gained secret knowledge in his travels."

"Secret knowledge? Black arts, you mean? Absurd! The king has no need to learn the art of making lead into gold or of consorting with demons. The demons driving Richard are all of his own making. They exist within his mind and heart. Now if it's witches you want, I'll show you one, soon as I lay my hands upon the treacherous bitch!"

"You know a witch?"

"I married one, God spurn her!"

"I did not know you had a wife, Sir Guy."

"There's the malady, I do not have her. She ran off to join the forest brigands, damn her eyes."

"The outlaws? Surely, you jest! Why would a lady go-"

"Because she is no lady, that's why! It's why I married her, too. Perhaps, de la Croix, you can understand, being a knight errant. I serve my king, but being sheriff of Nottingham shire is a soft job for a soft man. I am a fighting man. I have always been a fighting man. I have fought for everything I've won in life and I fought for my women, too. There is pleasure in a hard won victory. I have little use for pampered willows who will bend before the slightest wind. By God, give me a woman who will fight and scratch and kick! I took Marion from her father and he was glad to be rid of a troublesome wench, but I liked her spirit! Oh, how she fought me on our wedding night! Damn near took my eyes out and wrecked my manhood! I beat her black and blue and still she would not submit. By God, there was a woman, I thought!"

"Indeed," said Andre, dryly.

"Within the first week of our marriage, three times she tried to kill me," the sheriff said. "Once, she tried to stab me in my sleep. I still bear the scar upon my shoulder. After that, I tied her up when I was through with her and gagged her, so that I might sleep undisturbed. The second time, she tried poisoning my food. It was my good fortune that I had no appetite that day and but drank and ate some fruit. Still her effort cost me my best hound. I stripped some skin from off her shoulders with my lash and thereafter made her taste my meals first. The third time she involved the outlaws. She had often heard me speak of cleaning out these vermin from the forest and, before the king's return, I often led patrols into the wood myself. Well, she managed to get word to the outlaws through one of the stableboys and they arranged an ambush for me. Fortunately, they are as inept as they are unprincipled and I escaped, killing a good number of them and capturing several. My good wife, doubtless fearing that her part in the plot would be discovered by myself, freed the prisoners from my dungeons and escaped with them in the dead of night, little suspecting that I already knew of it and made the escape possible, hoping to trail them back to their hidden camp."

"And did you?"

"No. I lost them in the woods, worse luck."

"And your wife?"

"She has been with them ever since."

"I should think that you would be glad to be rid of her," said Andre.

"It might seem so, but I miss the bloodthirsty bitch. She made life interesting in these placid times. But I'll get her back one day, mark my word. She's a peculiar woman, de la Croix. Truth be told, I don't think she ever forgave God for making her a woman. Perhaps such an overabundance of spirit is misplaced in one of her sex." Guy chuckled. "She should have been a man."

"Indeed," said Andre, "it is hard to imagine a woman who would not be satisfied with so passionate a husband as yourself."

"I thought you would understand," the sheriff said. "You're a man after my own heart, de la Croix. What say the two of us go wenching some night?"

"Perhaps we will," said Andre, "when our present duties have been done."

"Yes, one must always think of duty first. Still, a man must have time in which to be a man, eh?"

"True," said Andre. "Else women will forget their role in life."

"The sheriff laughed. "We can't have that, now, can we?"

"No, indeed. What kind of world would it be if women were to forget their place?"

"Perhaps they would even take to wearing spurs and entering the lists," said Guy, laughing. "That would be a sight, eh?"

"I think perhaps the ale has overstimulated your imagination."

"No doubt. God made woman to serve man and that is how it should be."

"Maybe someday you will find one who will serve you properly," said Andre, smiling.

"I'll drink to that," the sheriff said.

"So will I, Sir Guy."

"Why so quiet, Andre?" said Marcel.

"I was thinking of the sheriff, little brother."

Marcel frowned. "I don't like him. He frightens me."

"I don't like him either, Marcel. He's an animal, not a man.

But then, the difference is a small one, is it not? We serve strange masters these days."

"Andre, why must we ride to Torquilstone? I'm afraid. I feel that no good will come of it."

Andre reined up her horse. "I have learned to trust your feelings, little brother. Have you a premonition?"

"The closer we get to Torquilstone, the stronger my fear becomes," Marcel said. "Let us not go there. Our horses are fresh, the day is young, we can put many miles between us and our troubles before the day is out."

Andre sat astride her horse silently for a moment, listening to the birds sing.

"Andre?"

"I am sorely tempted, Marcel. But I, too, am afraid. This black knight is some sort of sorcerer. One moment, there is nothing there, the next, he is standing at my shoulder. He is the devil's own, Marcel."

"Then we must fight him."

"I fear we lack the proper weapons. How does one fight a warlock?"

"I do not know."

"Nor do I. Perhaps we will find a way. Until then, we must bide our time and do his bidding."

"And what if we run out of time?"

"Yes, time always was our enemy, Marcel. But then, one cannot master time."

"So we ride on to Torquilstone?"

"Yes, little brother. We ride on."

His bonds were almost loose.

I looker had tensed the muscles in his arms and wrists when they had tied him and now, as he walked ahead of his mule and behind the two Norman knights, he was making the best of the slight amount of slack by trying to work his hands free. The trail was narrow. If he could free his hands, he stood a good chance of being able to make a break for it. Perhaps he would be able to lose the men in the forest, but his progress would be drastically impeded with his hands tied behind his back. He had to get them free first. Fortunately, his position in the column made it possible for him to try. De Bracy and Bois-Guilbert rode their horses at a slow walk just ahead of him. Behind him was the mule with the nysteel armor lashed to it and behind the mule was Isaac, who was followed closely by the men at arms. Every time he had voiced a protest, one of them had cuffed him, so he was now reduced to mumbling incoherently under his breath. Hooker could not make out what he was saying, but he thought he caught a word or two of Hebrew. The old man was praying.

Hooker was flanked by two men at arms. The one on his right was left handed and he wore his sword on the right side of his body. The one on his left was right handed and wore his sword on his left side. That effectively put both swords out of his reach in the event that he could free himself and make a quick grab. It did, however, leave both their daggers within his reach. It was a weapon he was far more comfortable with.

His wrists were wet. He guessed that he had rubbed right through the skin so deeply that he didn't even feel the pain. The danger in that was that the blood would soak his bonds and make them more difficult to work loose. He struggled feverishly, keeping a careful watch with his peripheral vision on the men at arms to either side of him. They looked bored and tired, but if they noticed his efforts, they would quickly come alert.

Hooker was close to abject panic. He was sweating profusely. He didn't want to die. From time to time, in his brief career as a soldier, he had tried to imagine what it would be like to die. It was a morbid preoccupation, but he had not been able to resist it. He thought that getting shot would not be too bad, though there were ways one get could shot that would result in a slow and painful death. He had once made a list, mentally, in an idle moment, of ways in which he would prefer to go. He never told anyone about it for fear of being ridiculed. He had listed all possible ways of meeting his Maker in order of preference. At the top of the list were all the most immediate ways of dying-in a bomb blast; from a sonic weapon or a laser; a fatal bullet wound that would kill him before he knew what hit him. Following that, he considered more primitive methods such as decapitation, either by a guillotine or a headsman's axe; a sword thrust through the heart; an arrow wound, a slit throat… He had also dwelled upon the more terrifying ways of dying. Drowning was said to be an easy death, but the prospect of it horrified him. There was death by slow torture; death by burning; death by irradiation or disease; death by chemical poisoning… There was one method of execution that made Hooker's guts crawl. He was possessed of a lively imagination and, in this regard, he was his own worst enemy. He knew there was no rational logic to fear. What petrified one man would hardly give pause to another. Hooker was obsessed with his fear of death and one manner of demise horrified him more than any other. Hanging.

He had nightmares about being hanged. He had even researched it. There was a mythology concerning hanging that held that in most cases, strangulation did not truly occur. If placed upon a gallows, on an elevation, or if sat astride a horse preparatory to the dirty deed, it was said that the noose would often break the neck and death would be instantaneous, especially if a weight were used. Hooker knew that such was not the case. It was the exception rather than the rule. The image of men dancing at the end of a rope did not spring from nothing. Depending on the type of knot used, it could take a man as long as fifteen minutes to die.

When Hooker had seen his own corpse, he had been violently sick. Now he could not push the sight from his mind. He imagined the garotte slowly cutting into his throat, the blood running in rivulets down his neck, his tongue protruding from his mouth, his fingers madly scrabbling for the wire and failing to catch hold of it, fighting for breath with every fiber of his being and not succeeding…

His head had been practically severed from his neck by the monofilament garotte. A weapon from the future. A weapon such as the one hidden in one of Lucas' gauntlets, just at the inside of the wrist. There was a small metal button there. One quick pull and the deadly wire could be brought into play. The nysteel gear was right behind him, lashed to the mule. It was all there, the mail, the armor, the shield, the gauntlets… How long would it be before one of the Norman knights riding just ahead of him would discover the secrets of the armor? Hooker felt a moistness on his face that he first thought was sweat running down from his forehead, but he was astonished to discover that he was weeping silently. His wrists were growing numb. It felt very slippery back there. If only he could work his hands free! If only no one would notice-

There! He had worked one knot loose! He had hardly any feeling left in his fingers. They prickled as if stabbed with a thousand tiny needles. His fingers kept slipping off the knots, which were slick with blood. Please, God, he thought, abandoning his atheism, help me! He could now almost slip one hand free of the ropes. He gritted his teeth and pulled with all his might. He felt his left thumb being scraped raw, he felt his left wrist dislocate… and he was free!

He slammed his left fist into the face of the man to his left, crying out from the pain that shot up his arm as the dislocated wrist broke. With his right hand, he plucked the dagger from the man's sheath; moving with every ounce of speed that he could muster, he slashed it across the face of the man to his right, opening him up from his right eye to the bottom of his jaw. Then he made a headlong dive for the brush at the side of the trail.

"Catch that man!" he heard someone yell and then he rolled and was on his feet, running through the brambles, his one useless hand hanging limp at his side, the other clutching the dagger. He heard the pounding of horses' hooves behind him and the thrashing of men plunging into the brush. He ran as hard as he could, whimpering with fear. He tripped over a root and fell, striking his head.

"I have him!" someone cried.

Hooker looked up to see a man at arms bearing down upon him, sword drawn. He hurled the dagger. It stuck in the man's throat and he fell to the ground, gurgling horribly. De Bracy was upon him in an instant. He swung his sword, trying to strike Hooker with the flat of the blade, so as to take him alive. Hooker caught the blow on his right arm and he cried out as he felt his elbow break. Ignoring the pain, he snagged De Bracy's arm and pulled him from the saddle. The knight's horse shied away from him and he heard the others close behind. He ran. A crossbow bolt whizzed by him, then another. He ran, heedless of the branches lashing at his face, tripping, falling, getting up and running; he fled deeper into the forest, trying to outdistance his pursuers. He ran without looking back. He ran for his life, not knowing that he had escaped the frying pan only to fall into the fire.

There was a knock at the door of Irving's chambers.

"Yes?"

"We have taken a prisoner, Sire," said the sheriff, from the other side of the door. Irving got up and opened the door to admit Sir Guy.

"Well?"

"You did say to keep you informed, Sire."

"What of it?"

"One of my forest patrols has taken a prisoner. An escaped bondsman, it would seem. He stumbled out upon the trail before them and went wild."

"What do you mean?"

"He seems to be a raving madman, Sire. Possessed by demons or else mad with fear. He had a wrist broken on one arm and an elbow on the other and still he made a struggle. My men said that he spoke in tongues, screaming and babbling like a lunatic. He has been held captive, that much is certain. His hands are rubbed raw from where he slipped his bonds."

"A Saxon?"

"No, Sire. I do not know what he is, but I have seen him somewhere before, I think. He has a scar upon his face. I have seen that face recently, but I cannot remember where."

"In Nottingham? At York?"

"No, Sire. Perhaps at Ashby… Yes, at the tournament. I'm sure I saw him among the knights' pavilions, but I cannot remember whom he served."

"Where is he now?"

"Locked in the dungeons, below."

"Very well, I will see him presently. Await me there."

The sheriff left and Irving closed the door. A bondsman, but not a Saxon. Spoke in tongues. Was it possible? There was one way to make sure. Irving locked the door and pulled the case containing the chronoplate out from beneath his-bed. He opened it and took out the border circuits which, when assembled, formed the chronoplate. Inside the case was the computer and the tracer apparatus. Irving turned it on, then selected close range implant scan. Yes! There it was! The implant proximity signal! He was right on top of it. It was an amazing stroke of luck. The sheriff's men had caught themselves a temporal trooper. That could only mean that it was one of the adjustment team! He quickly packed the gear away and hurried to join the sheriff in the dungeons.

The nether regions of the castle were dark and damp. There was a fetid odor of decay in the stagnant air and rats scurried away before him as he descended into the torchlit dungeons. The sheriff awaited him with the turnkey, a hideous old man who smelled as if he had been three weeks dead himself. The turnkey lived down in the depths of Nottingham Castle and he had not seen the light of day in years. He was half blind and his skin was the color of the underbelly of a fish. As they passed several of the cells, Irving could hear Cedric shouting behind one of the doors.

"Silence, you!" The turnkey pounded on the door with his gnarled fist. "Nothing but noise from that one," he said. He cackled. "He'll scream himself hoarse soon enough." He paused by another door. "This one's the lady," he said, smacking his lips. "Tender morsel, that. Will you be torturing her, Your Highness? I'm a good man with the bellows, that I am. I can heat the coals so that they glow red hot!"

"Shut him up," said Irving.

"Quiet!" said the sheriff, belting the turnkey alongside the head hard enough to stagger him.

"Thank you, milord."

The turnkey paused by the door of one of the cells and fumbled with his keys. It took him an eternity to fit the key into the hole-he kept missing it. Finally, he opened the door.

Irving gagged on the smell. He spun away, holding his hand over his nose and mouth.

"Bring him out," the sheriff said.

The turnkey entered the cell and, after a moment, he could be heard fumbling with the prisoner's manacles. Then there were the sounds of a scuffle and a blow falling and Hooker hurtled through the door. The sheriff felled him with one blow. Hooker collapsed to the floor, moaning. The sheriff stuck his head into the cell.

"You alive, you wretch?"

"Yes, thank you, milord."

The sheriff slammed the door on the cell, leaving the turnkey inside. He bent down and lifted Hooker bodily, throwing him over his shoulder. Together with Irving, he walked to the end of the hall, carrying Hooker. They descended another flight of steps to the torture chamber.

Once there, the sheriff threw Hooker up against a wall, holding the semi-conscious man with one hand on his chest while with the other he fastened on the manacles.

"Bring him around," said Irving.

Sir Guy picked up a bucket containing viscous, stagnant water and dashed it into Hooker's face. Then he grabbed the corporal by the hair and shook him.

"He's coming to his senses, Sire."

"Leave us."

"Sire?"

"Await me in the upper level," Irving said. "I would question this man myself."

"As you wish, Sire."

The sheriff left. Irving pulled a crude wooden stool over with his booted foot and sat down, waiting for Hooker to fully come to. When Hooker opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Irving sitting on the stool a few feet away from him, smiling slightly.

"Oh, Christ," said Hooker.

"Hardly," Irving said, "but I do see that you know me, don't you?"

Hooker did not reply.

"Let us not waste time," said Irving. "I don't know who you are, but I do know what you are and that's more to the point. You are a member of a temporal adjustment team sent back to stop me. There's no use denying it, my equipment has registered your implant. I also know that there are at least three others; I've picked up their implants, as well. All of you were at the tournament. Unfortunately, I have not yet been able to take the time to pinpoint the location of the others, but I know they're somewhere in Sherwood."

"If you can locate them, what do you want from me?" said Hooker.

"Only a few simple answers to a few simple questions," Irving said.

"The name is Hooker, J.D., Corporal, serial number-"

Irving chuckled. "Look around you, Hooker. This is a medieval torture chamber. The equipment here is admittedly primitive, but nevertheless, quite effective. There really isn't any need to resort to such unpleasant means of persuasion, is there? You really can't win. I could have taken all of you earlier had I wished to, but I had other things to attend to. You had not yet become an inconvenience. You see, I can take you men out almost anytime I wish to."

"Then why don't you?"

"Expedience, Mr. Hooker. Your superior and I have been engaged in an elaborate game. He's a formidable player, but each time around, I learn the rules a little better. So does he, I expect. I daresay it's a learning experience for both of us. Well, be that as it may, one of the things I've learned is that the moment it becomes necessary for me to sanction the adjustment team, my rival immediately begins the game all over. Just once, I'd like to play it through to the end. Would you care for a cigarette?"

He removed a pack from a pouch on his belt and offered one to Hooker.,

"Quite safe, I assure you. There's nothing in this more elaborate than tobacco. I do want you alive for now and given the condition you're in, I wouldn't chance dosing you with anything. Chances are you've been made drug resistant, anyway."

Hooker opened his mouth and Irving placed the cigarette between his lips, then lighted it.

"Sometimes, the old-fashioned methods really are the best," said Irving. He walked over to an iron maiden and slowly forced it closed. It made a hideous scraping noise. "You know, there was a time when agents were equipped with all sorts of fascinating devices to enable them to avoid breaking under interrogation, cyanide capsules in the teeth and so on. Terrible waste of manpower. It's encouraging to know that we've progressed beyond such things."

Hooker watched him silently, cigarette between clenched teeth.

"The assumption is that anyone can break, Mr. Hooker. It really doesn't matter. After all, there's no point to wasting manpower needlessly, isn't that so?"

"Get to the point," said Hooker.

"Certainly. The point is, I've had my fill of all this interference. It grows tiresome. This is like some strange game of chess, wherein the black king is beset by pawns. The pawns are very vulnerable, this is taken' for granted, and they're really not all that important. The king can continue to take pawns almost at will, but there is always the chance that he will maneuver himself into a corner and a rather undignified checkmate. So the white king is prepared to sacrifice his pawns left and right, banking on those odds. All the black king can hope for is a stalemate, wherein no more pawns arrive. Only, in this game, the black king wins with a stalemate.

"You see, Mr. Hooker, in this strange game so long as there are pawns upon the board, my chances for a stalemate are increased. The rules are a bit peculiar. The white king is allowed an almost inexhaustible amount of pawns. They serve me better by remaining in the game. Unless you present a threat to me, you're quite safe. Really. I'd be a fool to kill any of you unless it was absolutely unavoidable. I just want you to make that easier for me, helping you to stay in the game, that is. Cooperate with me and you can sit the rest of the game out in comfort. You will be well provided for and you'll be out of it. Look at yourself. Broken bones, lacerations, you're on the edge of a total nervous collapse… and why? There's no reason for it. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know and that will be the end of it. I'll see to it that you're treated for your injuries and I'll see to it that you'll be comfortable. All you have to do is identify the other members of your team for me."

"Is that all?"

Irving took the butt out of Hooker's mouth before it burned his lips.

"Well, there is one other thing. You see, I'm in a bit of a bind here. I have certain things I must accomplish and the other referee is determined to make matters very complicated for me. It is in both our interests, as I'm sure you'll understand, to keep the disruptions of the timestream to a minimum. So far, we've been able to do that, but it has not been easy. In order for you to appreciate my situation, you must understand the mechanics of the game. It involves a series of limited disruptions. Each one invites an increased possibility of creating a paradox.

"Each time, we progress a little farther, but I have yet to succeed in taking the throne. Once I've accomplished that, I will be in a stronger position, but still not invulnerable. I need to know two things from you in order to bring this charade to an end. I can't spend all my time scanning for the other members of your team and, unless I'm right on top of them and scanning, it becomes a little difficult for me to pinpoint them, especially if there's a crowd around. If push comes to shove, there will be fighting. I expect that to happen very soon and I don't want to kill any of your team unintentionally. If I can find out who they are, I can take steps to avoid them. I don't want to strike out at them except in self-defense, only if it's absolutely necessary. I just want you to make that easier for me. Help me to help you stay alive. And the other thing I need to know is where the other referee is."

"Can't you trace him?"

"Neither of us have implants, Mr. Hooker, and both of us have bypassed the tracer functions on our chronoplates. He doesn't know where I am and I don't know where he is. However, you can remedy that situation, can't you?"

"If I do, then he's a dead man," Hooker said.

"Well, yes, I'm afraid that I have no choice but to kill him. It won't be a simple matter, I assume he's well protected, but that should not concern you. He doesn't care what happens to you. You're just a pawn to him. He sent you out to die."

Hooker closed his eyes and remained silent.

"I respect your loyalty, Mr. Hooker, but it's sadly misplaced."

Hooker stared at him. He became aware of the fact that he was in a cold sweat. His knees were starting to shake.

"Do you really think you can resist torture, Mr. Hooker?"

Hooker swallowed hard. "Other men have."

"Only because the interrogators were inept. You're already in a great deal of pain, aren't you? You're afraid. I can see it in your face. So far, this has all been relatively simple, even pleasant. Don't force me to have to hurt you."

"Go to hell, Goldblum."

Irving sighed. "Very well, then. You leave me no choice. I'm really very sorry about this."

He walked over to the racks and picked up a thumbscrew. It would do for a beginning.