THE STARS MY DESTINATION -- CHAPTER FOUR
The star chamber in Castle Presteign was an oval room with ivory panels picked out with gold, high mirrors, and stained glass windows. It contained a gold organ with robot organist by Tiffany, a gold-tooled library with android librarian on library ladder, a Louis Quinze desk with android secretary before a manual memo-bead recorder, an American bar with robot bartender. Presteign would have preferred human servants, but androids and robots kept secrets.
"Be seated, Captain Yeovil." he said courteously. "This is Mr. Regis Sheffield, representing me in this matter. That young man is Mr. Sheffield's assistant."
"Bunny's my portable law library," Sheffield grunted.
Presteign touched a control. The still life in the star chamber came alive. The organist played, the librarian sorted books, the secretary typed, the bartender shook drinks. It was spectacular; and the impact, carefully calculated by industrial psychometrists, established control for Presteign and put visitors at a disadvantage.
"You spoke of a man named Foyle, Captain Yeovil?" Presteign prompted.
Captain Peter Yang-Yeovil of Central Intelligence was a lineal descendant of the learned Mencius and belonged to the Intelligence Tong of the Inner Planets Armed Forces. For two hundred years the IPAF had entrusted its intelligence work to the Chinese who, with a five thousand-year history of cultivated subtlety behind them, had achieved wonders. Captain Y'ang-Yeovil was a member of the dreaded Society of Paper Men, an adept of the Tientsin Image Makers, a Master of superstition, and fluent in the Secret Speech. He did not look Chinese.
Y'ang-Yeovil hesitated, fully aware of the psychological pressures operating against him. He examined Presteign's ascetic, basilisk face; Sheffield's blunt, aggressive expression; and the eager young man named Bunny whose rabbit features had an unmistakable Oriental cast. It was necessary for Yeovil to re-establish control or effect a compromise.
He opened with a flanking movement. "Are we related anywhere within fifteen degrees of consanguinity?" he asked Bunny in the Mandarin dialect. "I am of the house of the learned MengTse whom the barbarians call Mencius."
"Then we are hereditary enemies." Bunny answered in faltering Mandarin. "For the formidable ancestor of my line was deposed as governor of Shan-tung in 342 B.C. by the earth pig Meng-Tse."
"With all courtesy I shave your ill-formed eyebrows." Y'ang-Yeovil said.
"Most respectfully I singe your snaggle teeth." Bunny laughed.
"Come, sirs," Presteign protested.
"We are reaffirming a three-thousand-year blood feud," Y'ang-Yeovil explained to Presteign, who looked sufficiently unsettled by the conversation and the laughter which he did not understand. He tried a direct thrust. "When will you be finished with Foyle?" he asked.
"What Foyle?" Sheffield cut in.
"What Foyle have you got?"
"There are thirteen of that name associated with the clan Presteign."
"An interesting number. Did you know I was a Master of Superstition? Some day I must show you the Mirror-And-Listen Mystery. I refer to the Foyle involved in a reported attempt on Mr. Presteign's life this morning."
"Presteign," Presteign corrected. "I am not 'Mister." I am Presteign of Presteign."
"Three attempts have been made on Presteign's life," Sheffield said. "you'll have to be more specific."
"Three this morning? Presteign must have been busy." Yang-Yeovil sighed. Sheffield was proving himself a resolute opponent. The Intelligence man tried another diversion. "I do wish our Mr. Presto had been more specific."
"Your Mr. Presto!" Presteign exclaimed.
"Oh yes. Didn't you know one of your five hundred Prestos was an agent of ours? That's odd. We took it for granted you'd find out and went ahead with a confusion operation."
Presteign looked appalled. Y'ang-Yeovil crossed his legs and continued to chat breezily. "That's the basic weakness in routine intelligence procedure; you start finessing before finesse is required."
"He's bluffing." Presteign burst out. "None of our Prestos could possibly have any knowledge of Gulliver Foyle."
"Thank you." Y'ang-Yeovil smiled. "That's the Foyle I want. When can you let us have him?"
Sheffield scowled at Presteign and then turned on Y'ang-Yeovil. "Who's 'us'?" he demanded.
''Why do you want him?"
"Do you make love to a woman before or after you take your clothes off?"
"That's a damned impertinent question to ask."
"And so was yours. When can you let us have Foyle?'
"When you show cause."
"To me." Sheffield hammered a heavy forefinger against his palm. "This is a civilian matter concerning civilians. Unless war material, war personnel, or the strategy and tactics of a war-in-being are involved, civilian jurisdiction shall always prevail."
"303 Terran Appeals 191," murmured Bunny.
"The Nomad was carrying war material.'"
"The Nomad was transporting platinum bullion to Mars Bank," Presteign snapped. "If money is a-"
"I am leading this discussion." Sheffield Interrupted. He swung around on Y'ang-Yeovil. "Name the war material."
This blunt challenge knocked Y'ang-Yeovil off balance. He knew that the crux of the Nomad situation was the presence on board the ship of 20 pounds of PyrE, the total world supply, which was probably irreplaceable now that its discoverer had disappeared. He knew that Sheffield knew that they both knew this. He had assumed that Sheffield would prefer to keep PyrE unnamed. And yet, here was the challenge to name the unnamable.
He attempted to meet bluntness with bluntness. "All right, gentlemen, I'll name it now. The Nomad was transporting twenty pounds of a substance called PyrE."
Presteign started; Sheffield silenced him. "What's pyrE?"
"According to our reports-"
"From Presteign's Mr. Presto?"
"Oh, that was bluff." Y'ang-Yeovil laughed, and momentarily regained control. "According to Intelligence, PyrE was developed for Presteign by a man who subsequently disappeared. PyrE is a Misch Metal, a pyrophore. That's all we know for a fact. But we've had vague reports about it. Unbelievable reports from reputable agents. If a fraction of our inferences are correct, PyrE could make the difference between a victory and a defeat."
"Nonsense. No war material has ever made that much difference."
"No? I cite the fission bomb of 1945. I cite the Null-G antigravity installations of 2022. Talley's All-Field Radar Trip Screen of 2194. Material can often make the difference, especially when there's the chance of the enemy getting it first."
"There's no such chance now."
"Thank you for admitting the importance of PyrE."
"I admit nothing; I deny everything."
"Central Intelligence is prepared to offer an exchange. A man for a man. The inventor of PyrE for Gully Foyle."
"You've got him?" Sheffield demanded. "Then why badger us for Foyle?"
"Because we've got a corpse'" Y'ang-Yeovil flared. "The Outer Satellites command had him on Lassell for six months trying to carve information out of him. We pulled him out with a raid at a cost of 79 percent casualties. We rescued a corpse. We still don't know if the Outer Satellites were having a cynical laugh at our expense letting us recapture a body. We still don't know how much they ripped out of him."
Presteign sat bolt upright at this. His merciless fingers tapped slowly and sharply.
"Damn it," Y'ang-Yeovil stormed. "Can't you recognize a crisis, Sheffield? We're on a tightrope. What the devil are you doing backing Presteign in this shabby deal? You're the leader of the liberal party ... Terra's archpatriot. You're Presteign's political archenemy. Sell him out, you fool, before he sells us all out."
"Captain Yeovil," Presteign broke in with icy venom. "These expressions cannot be countenanced."
"We want and need PyrE." Y'ang-Yeovil continued. "We'll have to investigate that twenty pounds of PyrE, rediscover the synthesis, learn to apply it to the war effort ... and all this before the O.S. beats us to the punch, if they haven't already. But Presteign refuses to cooperate. Why? Because he's opposed to the party in power. He wants no military victories for the Liberals. He'd rather we lost the war for the sake of polities because rich men like Presteign never lose. Come to your senses, Sheffield. You've been retained by a traitor. What in God's name are you trying to do?"
Before Sheffield could answer, there was a discreet tap on the door of the Star Chamber and Saul Dagenham was ushered in. Time was when Dagenham was one of the Inner Planets' research wizards, a physicist with inspired intuition, total recall and a sixth-order computer for a brain. But there was an accident at Tycho Sands, and the fission blast that should have killed him did not. Instead it turned him dangerously radioactive; it turned him 'hot"; it transformed him into a twenty-fifth century "Typhoid Mary."
He was paid Cr 25,000 a year by the Inner Planets government to take precautions which they trusted him to carry out. He avoided physical contact with any person for more than five minutes per day. He could not occupy any room other than his own for more than thirty minutes a day. Commanded and paid by the IP to isolate himself, Dagenham had abandoned research and built the colossus of Dagenham couriers, Inc.
When Y'ang-Yeovil saw the short blond cadaver with leaden skin and death's-head smile enter the Star Chamber, he knew he was assured of defeat in this encounter. He was no match for the three men together. He arose at once.
'I'm getting an Admiralty order for Foyle," he said. "As far as Intelligence is concerned, all negotiations are ended. From now on it's war."
"Captain Yeovil is leaving." Presteign called to the Jaunte-Watch officer who had guided Dagenham in. "Please see him out through the maze."
Y'ang-Yeovil waited until the officer stepped alongside him and bowed. Then, as the man courteously motioned to the door, Y'ang-Yeovil looked directly at Presteign, smiled ironically, and disappeared with a faint pop!
"Presteign!" Bunny exclaimed. "He jaunted. This room isn't blind to him. He-"
"Evidently," Presteign said icily. "Inform the Master of the Household," he instructed the amazed Watch officer. "The coordinates of the Star chamber are no longer secret. They must be changed within twenty-four hours. And now, Mr. Dagenham ..."
"One minute." Dagenham said. "There's that Admiralty order."
Without apology or explanation he disappeared too. Presteign raised his eyebrows. "Another party to the Star Chamber secret," he murmured. "But at least he had the tact to conceal his knowledge until the secret was out."
Dagenham reappeared. "No point wasting time going through the motions of the maze," he said. "I've given orders in Washington. They'll hold Yeovil up; two hours guaranteed, three hours probably, four hours possible."
"How will they hold him up?" Bunny asked.
Dagenham gave him his deadly smile. "Standard FFCC Operation of Dagenham couriers. Fun, fantasy, confusion, catastrophe.... We'll need all four hours. Damn! I've disrupted your dolls, Presteign." The robots were suddenly capering in lunatic fashion as Dagenham's hard radiation penetrated their electronic systems. "No matter, I'll be on my way."
"Foyle?" Presteign asked.
"Nothing yet." Dagenham grinned his death's-head smile. "He's really unique. I've tried all the standard drugs and routines on him ... Nothing. Outside, he's just an ordinary spaceman ... if you forget the tattoo on his face ... but inside he's got steel guts. Something's got hold of him and he won't give."
"What's got hold of him?" Sheffield asked.
"I hope to find out."
"Don't ask; you'd be an accessory. Have you got a ship ready, Presteign?"
"I'm not guaranteeing there'll be any Nomad for us to find, but we'll have to get a jump on the navy if there is. Law ready, Sheffield?"
"Ready. I'm hoping we won't have to use it."
"I'm hoping too; but again, I'm not guaranteeing. All right. Stand by for instructions. I'm on my way to crack Foyle."
"Where have you got him?"
Dagenham shook his head. "This room isn't secure." He disappeared.
He jaunted Cincinnati-New Orleans-Monterey to Mexico City, where he appeared in the psychiatry Wing of the giant hospital of the Combined Terran Universities. Wing was hardly an adequate name for this section which occupied an entire city in the metropolis which was the hospital. Dagenham jaunted up to the 43rd floor of the Therapy Division and looked into the isolated tank where Foyle floated, unconscious. He glanced at the distinguished bearded gentlemen in attendance.
"Hell of a thing, the Head of psychiatry minding a patient for me."
"I think we owe you favors, Saul."
"You still brooding about Tycho sands, Fritz? I'm not. Am I lousing your wing with radiation?"
"I've had everything shielded."
"Ready for the dirty work?"
"I wish I knew what you were after."
"And you have to to turn my therapy department into an inquisition to get it?"
"That was the idea."
"Why not use ordinary drugs?"
"Tried them already. No good. He's not an ordinary man."
"You know this is illegal."
"I know. Changed your mind? Want to back out? I can duplicate your equipment for a quarter of a million."
"No, Saul. We'll always owe you favors."
"Then let's go. Nightmare Theater first."
They trundled the tank down a corridor and into a hundred feet square padded room. It was one of therapy's by-passed experiments. Nightmare Theater had been an early attempt to shock schizophrenics back into the objective world by rendering the phantasy world into which they were withdrawing uninhabitable. But the shattering and laceration of patients' emotions had proved to be too cruel and dubious a treatment.
For Dagenham's sake, the head of Psychiatry had dusted off the 3D visual projectors and reconnected all sensory projectors. They decanted Foyle from his tank, gave him a reviving shot and left him in the middle of the floor. They removed the tank, turned off the lights and entered the concealed control booth. There, they turned on the projectors.
Every child in the world imagines that its phantasy world is unique to itself. Psychiatry knows that the joys and terrors of private phantasies are a common heritage shared by all mankind. Fears, guilts, terrors, and shames could be interchanged, from one man to the next, and none would notice the difference. The therapy department at Combined Hospital had recorded thousands of emotional tapes and boiled them down to one all-inclusive all-terrifying performance in Nightmare Theater.
Foyle awoke, panting and sweating, and never knew that he had awakened. He was in the clutch of the serpent-haired bloody-eyed Eumenides. He was pursued, entrapped, precipitated from heights, burned, flayed, bowstringed, vermin-covered, devoured. He screamed. He ran. The radar Hobble-Field in the Theater dogged his steps and turned them into the ghastly slow motion of dream- running. And through the cacophony of grinding, shrieking, moaning, pursuing that assailed his ears, muttered the thread of a persistent voice.
'Where is Nomad where is Nomad where is Nomad where is Nomad where is Nomad?"
'Vorga." Foyle croaked. 'Vorga.'
He had been inoculated by his own fixation. His own nightmare had rendered him immune.
'Where is Nomad? where have you left Nomad? what happened to Nomad? where is Nomad?'
'Vorga." Foyle shouted. 'Vorga. Vorga. Vorga."
In the control booth, Dagenham swore. The head of psychiatry, monitoring the projectors, glanced at the clock. "One minute and forty- five seconds, Saul. He can't stand much more."
"He's got to break. Give him the final effect."
They buried Foyle alive, slowly, inexorably, hideously. He was carried down into black depths and enclosed in stinking slime that cut off light and air. He slowly suffocated while a distant voice boomed." 'WHERE IS NOMAD? WHERE HAVE YOU LEFT NOMAD? YOU CAN ESCAPE IF YOU FIND NOMAD· WHERE IS NOMAD?"
But Foyle was back aboard Nomad in his lightless, airless coffin, floating comfortably between deck and roof. He curled into a tight fetal ball and prepared to sleep. He was content. He would escape. He would find Vorga.
"Impervious bastard!" Dageham swore. "Has anyone ever resisted Nightmare Theater before, Fritz?"
"Not many. You're right. That's an uncommon man, Saul."
"He's got to be ripped open. All right, to hell with any more of this. We'll try the Megal Mood next. Are the actors ready?"
"Then let's go."
"There are six directions in which delusions of grandeur can run. The Megal (short for Megalomania) Mood was therapy's dramatic diagnosis technique for establishing and plotting the particular course of megalomania.
Foyle awoke in a luxurious four-poster bed. He was in a bedroom hung with brocade, papered in velvet. He glanced around curiously. Soft sunlight filtered through latticed windows. Across the room a valet was quietly laying out clothes.
"Hey ..." Foyle grunted.
"The valet turned. "Good morning, Mr. Fourmyle," he murmured.
"It's a lovely morning, sir. I've laid out the brown twill and the cordovan pumps, sir."
"What's a matter, you?
"I've-" The valet gazed at Foyle curiously. "Is anything wrong, Mr. Fourmyle?"
"What you call me, man?"
"By your name, sir."
"My name is ... Fourmyle?" Foyle struggled up in the bed. "No, it's not. It's Foyle. Gully Foyle, that's my name, me."
The valet bit his lip. "One moment, sir ..." He stepped outside and called. Then he murmured. A lovely girl in white came running into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. She took Foyle's hands and gazed into his eyes. Her face was distressed.
"Darling, darling, darling," she whispered. "You aren't going to start all that again, are you? The doctor swore you were over it."
"Start what again?"
"All that Gulliver Foyle nonsense about your being a common sailor and-"
"I am Gully Foyle. That's my name, Gully Foyle."
"Sweetheart, you're not. That's just a delusion you've had for weeks. You've been overworking and drinking too much."
"Been Gully Foyle all my life, me."
"Yes, I know darling. That's the way it's seemed to you. But you're not. You're Geoffrey Fourmyle. The Geoffrey Fourmyle. You're- Oh, what's the sense telling you? Get dressed, my love. You've got to come downstairs. Your office has been frantic."
Foyle permitted the valet to dress him and went downstairs in a daze. The lovely girl, who evidently adored him, conducted him through a giant studio littered with drawing tables, easels, and half-finished canvases. She took him into a vast hall filled with desks, filing cabinets, stock tickers, clerks, secretaries, office personnel. They entered a lofty laboratory cluttered with glass and chrome. Burners flickered and hissed; bright colored liquids bubbled and churned; there was a pleasant odor of interesting chemicals and odd experiments.
"What's all this?" Foyle asked.
The girl seated Foyle in a plush armchair alongside a giant desk littered with interesting papers scribbled with fascinating symbols. On some Foyle saw the name: Geoffrey Fourmyle, scrawled in an imposing, authoritative signature.
"There's some crazy kind of mistake, is all," Foyle began.
The girl silenced him. "Here's Doctor Regan. He'll explain."
An impressive gentleman with a crisp, comforting manner, came to Foyle, touched his pulse, inspected his eyes, and nodded in satisfaction.
"Good," he said. "Excellent. You are close to complete recovery, Mr. Fourmyle. Now you will listen to me for a moment, eh?"
"You remember nothing of the past. You have only a false memory. You were overworked. You are an important man and there were too many demands on you. You started to drink heavily a month ago -- No, no, denial is useless. You drank. You lost yourself."
"You became convinced you were not the famous Jeff Fourmyle. An infantile attempt to escape responsibility. You imagined you were a common spaceman named Foyle. Gulliver Foyle, yes? With an odd number ... "
"Gully Foyle. AS:128/127:006. But that's me. That's-"
"It is not you. This is you." Dr. Regan waved at the interesting offices they could see through the transparent glass wall.
"You can only recapture the true memory if you discharge the old. All this glorious reality is yours, if we can help you discard the dream of the spaceman." Dr. Regan leaned forward, his polished spectacles glittering hypnotically. "Reconstruct this false memory of yours in detail, and I will tear it down. Where do you imagine you left the spaceship Nomad? How did you escape? Where do you imagine the Nomad is now?"
Foyle wavered before the romantic glamour of the scene which seemed to be just within his grasp.
"It seems to me I left Nomad out in-" He stopped short.
A devil-face peered at him from the highlights reflected in Dr. Regan's spectacles ... a hideous tiger mask with NOMAD blazoned across the distorted brow. Foyle stood up.
"Liars!" he growled. "It's real, me. This here is phoney. What happened to me is real. I'm real, me."
Saul Dagenham walked into the laboratory. "All right," he called. "Strike. It's a washout."
The bustling scene in laboratory, office, and studio ended. The actors quietly disappeared without another glance at Foyle. Dagenham gave Foyle his deadly smile. "Tough, aren't you? You're really unique. My name is Saul Dagenham. We've got five minutes for a talk. Come into the garden."
The Sedative Garden atop the Therapy Building was a triumph of therapeutic planning. Every perspective, every color, every contour had been designed to placate hostility, soothe resistance, melt anger, evaporate hysteria, absorb melancholia and depression.
"Sit down," Dagenham said, pointing to a bench alongside a pool in which crystal waters tinkled. "Don't try to jaunte -- you're drugged. I'll have to walk around a bit. Can't come too close to you. I'm 'hot.' D'you know what that means?"
Foyle shook his head sullenly. Dagenham cupped both hands around the flaming blossom of an orchid and held them there for a moment. "Watch that flower," he said. "you'll see."
He paced up a path and turned suddenly. "You're right, of course. Everything that happened to you is real. ... Only what did happen?"
"Go to hell." Foyle growled.
"You know, Foyle, I admire you."
"Go to hell."
"In your own primitive way you've got ingenuity and guts. You're Cro-Magnon, Foyle. I've been checking on you. That bomb you threw in the Presteign shipyards was lovely, and you nearly wrecked General Hospital getting the money and material together." Dagenham counted fingers. "You looted lockers, stole from the blind ward, stole drugs from the pharmacy, stole apparatus from the lab stockrooms."
"Go to hell, you."
"But what have you got against Presteign? Why'd you try to blow up his shipyard? They tell me you broke in and went tearing through the pits like a wild man. What were you trying to do, Foyle?"
"Go to hell."
Dagenham smiled. "If we're going to chat," he said. "You'll have to hold up your end. Your conversation's getting monotonous. What happened to Nomad?"
"I don't know about Nomad, nothing."
"The ship was last reported over seven months ago. Then ... spurlos versenkt. Are you the sale survivor? And what have you been doing all this time? Having your face decorated?"
"I don't know about Nomad, nothing."
"No, no, Foyle, that won't do. You show up with Nomad tattooed across your face. Fresh tattooed. Intelligence checks and finds you were aboard Nomad when she sailed. Foyle, Gulliver." AS:128/127:006, Mechanic's Mate, 3rd Class. As if all this isn't enough to throw Intelligence into a tizzy, you come back in a private launch that's been missing fifty years. Man, you're cooking in the reactor. Intelligence wants the answers to all these questions. And you ought to know how Central Intelligence butchers its answers out of people."
Foyle started. Dagenham nodded as he saw his point sink home. "Which is why I think you'll listen to reason. We want information, Foyle. I tried to trick it out of you; admitted. I failed because you're too tough; admitted. Now I'm offering an honest deal. We'll protect you if you'll cooperate. If you don't, you'll spend five years in an Intelligence lab having information chopped out of you."
It was not the prospect of the butchery that frightened Foyle, but the thought of the loss of freedom. A man had to be free to avenge himself, to raise money and find Vorga again, to rip and tear and gut Vorga.
"What kind of deal?" he asked.
"Tell us what happened to Nomad and where you left her."
"Why? Because of the salvage, man."
"There ain't nothing to salvage. She's a wreck, is all."
"Even a wreck's salvagable."
"You mean you'd jet out a million miles to pick up pieces? Don't joker me, man."
"All right," Dagenham said in exasperation. "There's the cargo."
"She was split wide open. No cargo left."
"It was a cargo you don't know about." Dagenham said confidentially. "Nomad was transporting platinum bullion to Mars Bank. Every so often, banks have to adjust accounts. Normally, enough trade goes on between planets so that accounts can be balanced on paper. The war's disrupted normal trade, and Mars Bank found that Presteign owed them twenty odd million credits without any way of getting the money short of actual delivery. Presteign was delivering the money in bar platinum aboard the Nomad. It was locked in the purser's safe."
"Twenty million," Foyle whispered.
"Give or take a few thousand. The ship was insured, but that just means that the underwriters, Bo'ness and Uig, get the salvage rights and they're even tougher than Presteign. However, there'll be a reward for you. Say ... twenty thousand credits."
"Twenty million," Foyle whispered again.
"We're assuming that an O.S. raider caught up with Nomad somewhere on course and let her have it. They couldn't have boarded and looted or you wouldn't have been left alive. This means that the purser's safe is still -- Are you listening, Foyle?"
But Foyle was not listening. He was seeing twenty million ... not twenty thousand ... twenty million in platinum bullion as a broad highway to Vorga. No more petty thefts from lockers and labs; twenty million for the taking and the razing of Vorga.
Foyle awoke. He looked at Dagenham. "I don't know about Nomad, nothing," he said.
"What the hell's got into you now? Why're you dummying up again?"
"I don't know about Nomad, nothing."
"I'm offering a fair reward. A spaceman can go on a hell of a tear with twenty thousand credits ... a one-year tear. What more do you want?"
"I don't know about Nomad, nothing."
"It's us or Intelligence, Foyle."
"You ain't so anxious for them to get me, or you wouldn't be flipping through all this. But it ain't no use, anyway. I don't know about Nomad, nothing. "
"You son of a ---" Dagenham tried to repress his anger. He had revealed just a little too much to this cunning, primitive creature. "You're right," he said. "We're not anxious for Intelligence to get you. But we've made our own preparations." His voice hardened. "You think you can dummy up and stand us off. You think you can leave us to whistle for Nomad. You've even got an idea that you can beat us to the salvage."
"No," Foyle said.
"Now listen to this. We've got a lawyer waiting in New York. He's got a criminal prosecution for piracy pending against you; piracy in space, murder, and looting. We're going to throw the book at you. Presteign will get a conviction in twenty-four hours. If you've got a criminal record of any kind, that means a lobotomy. They'll open up the top of your skull and burn out half your brain to stop you from ever jaunting again."
Dagenham stopped and looked hard at Foyle. When Foyle shook his head, Dagenham continued.
"If you haven't got a record, they'll hand you ten years of what is laughingly known as medical treatment. We don't punish criminals in our enlightened age, we cure 'em; and the cure is worse than punishment. They'll stash you in a black hole in one of the cave hospitals. You'll be kept in permanent darkness and solitary confinement so you can't jaunte out. They'll go through the motions of giving you shots and therapy, but you'll be rotting in the dark. You'll stay there and rot until you decide to talk. We'll keep you there forever. So make up your mind."
"I don't know nothing about Nomad. Nothing!" Foyle said.
"All right," Dagenham spat. Suddenly he pointed to the orchid blossom he had enclosed with his hands. It was blighted and rotting. "That's what's going to happen to you."