A lie? Another unpleasant twist in the psychological battle Reiko Oshima was waging to break her? Perhaps, but she thought not.
Kathleen wanted to cry with relief when Rheiman came to visit, but nothing showed. The mantra was repeated again and again.
I am strong.
It was no longer just a slogan. It was the truth. And there was a new mantra. I know.
I am strong and I know. Blindfolded, bound, and helpless though she was, she felt an ever-increasing strength and understanding that had previously eluded her. Motives and behavior, previously inexplicable, now made sense. It was if her mind had been out of focus in the past and the conclusions blurred. Now the focus was tight and clear and vivid.
She heard his marvelously civilian footsteps outside and then a brief interchange with the guard. They made jokes about him when his back was turned, but to his face they treated Rheiman with respect. He had no direct authority over them, she gathered, but he had some clout of some sort. He was a senior figure in the scheme of things.
But what did he do? Why was he here? So far, she had no idea. He had talked a great deal, but always in generalities. It was a kind of verbal reconnaissance. As Rheiman had said, people like to chew over a new idea before swallowing it. And Rheiman as a friend – which was what he clearly wanted to be – was certainly a novel proposition. For he was also the enemy. And she was strong.
She would not be seduced or flattered or won over by gentle words any more than she would give in to physical abuse. She would hold on fast and she would win. Somehow. There was always a way.
Sometimes you found out too late.
The cell door opened and closed and his footsteps came closer, and then there was a new noise. She racked her brain. She was getting good at identifying sounds. She smiled. Got you! It was a folding chair.
Small victories, Fitzduane used to say when he was blocked by something, they're all you need to keep going.
Rheiman cleared his throat. He seemed to feel the need to announce himself before he started to speak. Once he got going there was scant trace of hesitation, but initially he always betrayed that he was not quite sure of his ground. This did not support the idea that he was part of some plan of Oshima's. It was much more as if he was following his own agenda but was not quite sure how to proceed.
A weakness! A weakness that could be exploited!
"I brought a chair, Kathleen," said Rheiman apologetically. "It's not for you, I'm afraid. They insist you stay chained to the wall. That's the way they are. But then, you know that."
Kathleen remained stony-faced.
"I saw you smile when I came in," said Rheiman. He paused and then continued almost sadly. "For me? I think not. But you have a most beautiful smile, Kathleen. It melts my heart when I see you like this. I really do want us to be friends."
Kathleen swore silently. She was almost sure that she had shown no expression when she had guessed that the sound was the chair, but her damn body was letting her down.
"I used to work for a man named George Bull," said Rheiman. "He was a genius – way ahead of his time – and I hated him. Quite a few people did. People generally don't like people who are that smart.
"I loathed Bull's guts because he was attractive to women in a way that I was not. On the scientific side, I could more than give Bull a run for his money. I'm proving it now. am building what he only dreamed about – but my installation is way superior.
"The secret, you must know, is in the use of hydrogen as a propellant. Bull, you know, used a form of gunpowder. An odd choice for such a progressive man. Apart from being technologically less efficient, it is not the kind of thing that you can buy by the ton without attracting unwelcome attention. Hydrogen, on the other hand, is used for activities as innocent as children's balloons, and you can make it from ordinary water."
Kathleen knew she had a decision to make. She could maintain her silent resistance or switch tactics. Rheiman was dangling information in front of her as an incentive to speak. And if she did speak she could begin to guide the conversation and perhaps learn something that would help her escape. On the other hand, if she did break her silence, it could be seen as a sign of weakness.
But what counted was not so much what they thought but how she felt inside. I am strong and I know!
She made her decision.
"I don't – don't understand," she said slowly. Her throat was dry, and speech did not come easily.
"I'm sorry," said Rheiman. "I should have realized how you felt." She heard the sound of water pouring, and then her hands were being folded around a cup and steered gently toward her lips.
Water. It meant more than she could ever express. She was kept permanently thirsty. She felt a rush of gratitude toward Rheiman, and then her defense mechanisms cut in. Don't be fooled, Kathleen. This is a trick. This man is the enemy. Use him. Do not weaken.
"Feel better?" said Rheiman.
"A little," said Kathleen. Follow up an advantage. "It would be easier if I could see you, Mr. Rheiman. It's difficult to talk when you cannot see the other person."
There was silence. "I – I'm sorry," said Rheiman. "You're right, of course, but there are limits to what I can do. How they're treating you is barbaric, but you are Oshima's prisoner. She is not someone one defies lightly. Do you know who she is?"
Kathleen nodded. "I know who she is," she said with feeling. "And what she is." She looked toward where Rheiman was sitting. There was an opportunity here, a sensitivity to exploit. She would use his first name. "And you're working for her, Edgar?"
There was another long pause. "I – I… there are reasons, Kathleen."
"Tell me about them, Edgar," said Kathleen, her blindfolded face facing his, her voice soft. "Tell me about them."
She heard the metal frame of his chair rasp against the stone of the floor, then hurried footsteps. For long seconds there was silence as he paused by the door, and then it was opened and closed quietly.
She had pushed too hard and had alienated her one potential ally. Despair seized her, but then she fought back. She remembered a story Fitzduane had once told her.
"A man owned a valuable mule," he had said, "not just any old mule but a valuable, fine, upstanding animal with a glossy coat and clear eyes. Unfortunately, the mule would not do what it was told. To put it mildly, it was a bloody-minded beast.
"The mule owner, nor unreasonably, was frustrated by this recalcitrant animal. He tried various techniques and a whole raft of different mule tamers, but to no avail. The mule remained uncooperative.
"The mule owner was a rich man, and he was determined this animal would not beat him. He put out the word, and eventually he heard of a mule tamer who never failed. The man was expensive but, so said everyone, he always succeeded. Where mules were concerned, he knew what to do and when to do it.
"The mule owner contacted the mule tamer and, after much haggling, procured his services. The man arrived and, being quite famous, a crowd assembled to see him practice his art. What would he do? How would he operate?
"The mule tamer walked around the mule. The animal tossed his head and bared his teeth and tried his various tricks. The tamer, being an experienced man, was unscathed, but it was a close-run thing. This was one mean mule.
"The tamer had brought a well-worn leather bag. It was quite a long affair, similar in a way to a modern sports bag. He carried it slung over one shoulder.
"The mule tamer opened the bag and removed a sledgehammer. He then closed the bag – he was a neat man – and, carrying the hammer, walked back towards the mule.
"The mule owner was alarmed. ‘What are you doing?’ he cried. ‘This is one valuable mule.’