Friday Read Free Page B

voice was the one I thought of as “the Major.” It seemed to be coming through a speaker.
    “Good morning, Miss Friday.”
    (Morning? It seemed unlikely.) “Howdy, crèche baby!”
    “I’m glad that you are in fine fettle, dear, as this session is likely to prove long and tiring. Even unpleasant. I want to know all about you, love.”
    “Fire away. What will you have first?”
    “Tell me about this trip you just made, every tiny detail. And outline this organization you belong to. I might as well tell you that we already know a great deal about it, so if you lie, I will know it. Not even a little white fib, dear—for I will know it and what happens then I will regret but you will regret it far more.”
    “Oh, I won’t lie to you. Is a recorder running? This will take a long time.”
    “A recorder is running.”
    “Okay.” For three hours I spilled my guts.
    This was according to doctrine. My boss knows that ninety-nine out of a hundred will crack under sufficient pain, that almost that percentage will crack under long interrogation combined with nothing more than raw fatigue, but only Buddha Himself can resist certain drugs. Since he does not expect miracles and hates to waste agents, standard doctrine is: “If they grab you, sing!”
    So he makes sure that a field operative never knows anything critical. A courier never knows what she is carrying. I know nothing about policy. I don’t know my boss’s name. I’m not sure whether we are a government agency or an arm of one of the multinationals. I do know where the farm is but so do many other people…and it is (was) very well defended. Other places I have visited only via closed authorized power vehicles—an APV took me (for example) to a practice area that may be the far end of the farm. Or not.
    “Major, how did you crack this place? It was pretty strongly defended.”
    “I ask the questions, bright eyes. Let’s have that part again about how you were followed out of the Beanstalk capsule.”
    After a long time of this, when I had told all I knew and was repeating myself, the Major stopped me. “Dear, you tell a very convincing story and I don’t believe more than every third word. Let’s start procedure B.”
    Somebody grabbed my left arm and a needle went in. Babble juice! I hoped these frimping amateurs weren’t as clumsy with it as they were in some other ways; you can get very dead in a hurry with an overdose. “Major! I had better sit down!”
    “Put her in a chair.” Somebody did so.
    For the next thousand years I did my best to tell exactly the same story no matter how bleary I felt. At some point I fell off the chair. They didn’t stick me back onto it but stretched me on the cold concrete instead. I went on babbling.
    Some silly time later I was given some other shot. It made my teeth ache and my eyeballs felt hot but it snapped me awake. “Miss Friday!”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Are you awake now?”
    “I think so.”
    “My dear, I think you have been most carefully indoctrinated under hypnosis to tell the same story under drugs that you tell so well without drugs. That’s too bad as I must now use another method. Can you stand up?”
    “I think so. I can try.”
    “Stand her up. Don’t let her fall.” Someone—some two—did so. I wasn’t steady but they held me. “Start procedure C, item five.”
    Someone stomped a heavy boot on my bare toes. I screamed.
    Look, you! If you are ever questioned under pain, do scream. The Iron Man routine just makes them worse and it worse. Take it from one who’s been there. Scream your head off and crack as fast as possible.
    I am not going to give details of what happened during the following endless time. If you have any imagination, it would nauseate you, and to tell it makes me want to throw up. I did, several times. I passed out, too, but they kept reviving me and the voice kept on asking questions.
    Apparently the time came when reviving didn’t work, for the next thing I knew I was