Mack Reynolds - Amazon Planet

He had no way of knowing what methods they had of interrogating him. Simple torture? He assumed that he could bear as much as the next man. But was their torture simple? There had been no hint in the Hippolyte’s words to suggest of just what his interrogation would consist.

Would he have a chance to suicide?

Unlikely.

He cursed himself for not having had the foresight to provide himself with a capsule of cyanide. He cursed Sid Jakes for not having thought of it.

The elevator compartment sank and then, as before, shunted to the right, stopped, shunted left, stopped, seemed to twist and then moved forward at a clip.

No one, not even the major, said a word.

His mind raced, but there was nowhere for it to go. Everything was out of his control. There merest movement and the hands on his arms tightened. Without doubt, some of them bore some type of stun gun. He had enough problems without being muffled by a tuned-down stun gun.

The moving compartment halted, shunted about again and then zoomed upward at a knee bending velocity. It came to a halt and the door opened.

They marched him down a corridor which had the odors and atmosphere of a hospital, rather than of a prison or military building.

They hustled him into a room which continued the hospital motif, up to and including an operating table.

“Wait a minute,” he blurted inadvertently, even as two of his warrior guards reached down and grabbed him by the ankles. The two at his arms acted in unison and he found himself tossed up onto the table and held firmly.

He didn’t see who it was that put the clamps on arms, legs and head. He was unable to move.

Someone blatted orders and all except a few seemed to leave the room. He stared at the ceiling, not bothering to turn his eyes in attempt to see who was entering, who leaving.

He knew what was coming. There was to be no torture.

Shortly his suspicions were fulfilled. He felt a sudden prick in his arm. He clenched his teeth, knowing even as he did how meaningless the gesture was. There was another injection.

He might have known. In all other respects, the Amazonians had proven themselves to be as advanced as any of the member worlds of United Planets. There was no reason to believe they weren’t thoroughly familiar with Scop, or its equivalent. He had no illusions. He had just received a shot of Scop and of some other drug as well.

There was a period of possibly five minutes in which various mutterings and shuffling went on in the background. He didn’t bother to try to look. He kept his eyes on the ceiling.

Finally a voice said, “What is your name?”

Deep within him his soul screamed.

He said, “Ronald Bronston.”

“What is your official position?”

“I am an operative of supervisor grade of Section G, of the Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice, Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs, of United Planets.”

“Under whose orders are you working?”

“Sidney Jakes.”

“What is his position?”

“Assistant to Ross Metaxa.”

“Who is Ross Metaxa?”

“Commissioner of Section G.”

“From whom does he take orders?”

“I do not know.”

There was a pause for a moment and some whispering in the background.

Finally the voice came again. “What are you doing on Amazonia?”

“An Amazonian refugee requested aid of the Octagon. I was sent to investigate the situation on this planet.”

“What was her name?”

Ronny Bronston remained silent. Within him there was ultimate despair but it was meaningless. He was fully conscious. He was in control of mind and body, save this one thing. Save this one thing.

In the background muttering and an air of disbelief.

A different voice said, “What was his name?”

“Sarpedon.”

“What was his genos name?”

“I do not know.”

“What do you mean, a refugee?”

“He fled Amazonia to request political asylum and to secure aid.”

“What sort of aid?”

“Aid to overthrow the politico-economic system of Amazonia.”

There was an unbelieving intake of breath in the background.

“What would take its place?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you know anything about this projected new politico-economic system?”

“Yes, it would include men in the administration of the planet.”

There was another short silence.

Finally a voice said, “Would it include women as well?”

“I do not know.”

“Where is this Sarpedon now?”

“I do not know.”

“Has he returned to Amazonia?”

“I do not know.”

“Is he still on Earth?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you know anything else about Sarpedon?”

“Yes, he is thought to be dead.”

“Why?”

“He disappeared from the apartment which Section G had assigned him.”

There was a long pause again. Finally still another voice said, “Does this Section G believe the Amazonian Embassy on Earth is guilty of Sarpedon’s death?”

“Yes.”

“How did Sarpedon get to Earth?”

“He was smuggled onto the artifical satellite that houses the UP Embassy, and from there returned by regular spaceship.”

“Who smuggled him aboard the satellite?”

“The Sons of Liberty.”

“The Sons of Liberty! Who in the name of the Goddess are the Sons of Liberty?”

“An underground organization of men.”

“An underground organization of men! Don’t be ridiculous.”

That last had come from the background somewhere. It was not a voice Ronny had heard before.

“Quiet,” an authoritative speaker said.

The questioning continued. “What is the purpose of this underground organization?”

“To overthrow the present government.”

“How?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you know the names of any of the members?”

“Yes. Sarpedon, Zeke, Teucer, Damon.”

“What are their genos names?”

“I do not know.”

“Who is Zeke?”

Ronny Broston remained silent.

“Where did you learn Zeke’s name?”

“At the underground drop at Number 35 Hiliopolis Street.”

“How did you know this address?”

“It was given to me by Sarpedon.”

“Did he give you any other addresses here on Amazonia?”

“No.”

“When were you at the underground drop on Heliopolis Street?”

“Last night.”

He could hear the major’s voice in the background. “Artimis! He was under guard and in bed.”

Somebody else snapped, “I assume you were the guard, Major Oreithyia? You realize it’s impossible for him to lie.”

“Silence,” the authoritive voice rapped.

“Who else did you meet at the underground drop?”

“Teucer.”

“Who is Teucer?”

“A Lybian refugee.”

“Lybian refugee! What do you mean by Lybian refugee?”

“A man who fled Lybia and sought sanctuary in Paphlagonia.”

“Sanctuary? Sanctuary with whom?”

“With the Paphlagonian Sons of Liberty.”

Someone blurted, “Is there a Lybian Sons of Liberty?”

“Yes.”

There was another lengthy silence and muttering in the further parts of the room.

Finally, “Who else did you meet at the Heliopolis address?”

“Nobody.”

“Where did you meet Damon?”

He remained silent.

“How did you learn Damon’s name?”

“Zeke told it to me.”

“What did Zeke tell you about Damon?”

“He is the head of the Sons of Liberty.”

“How many followers are there of this fantastic organization?”

“Tens of thousands of members and half the male population as inactive sympathizers.”

“Ridiculous!” said the voice from the background which had been shushed before.