"Jesus," he said.
* * *
For once Wetherly forgot to smile. He sat facing Loomis across the great desk, Sir Matthew Chinn on his right, and his face was grave.
"The physical injuries are relatively minor," he said. "Two broken ribs, a dislocated fingerbone, considerable bruising, particularly in the area of the kidneys. That induced a slight incontinence, but we feel it can be cured." He glanced at Chinn, whose head came down in agreement like a pecking bird's. "He also had cuts across his chest and thighs. We think that these were made by the wire that was used to hold him down while they—" he paused.
"Get on with it," said Loomis.
"Exactly," Chinn said. "There is considerable burning of the testicles and penis, and minor burns on the right nipple. Craig was given a series of violent electric shocks."
"The agony must have been appalling," said Wetherly.
"It always is," said Loomis, and Chinn's head flicked toward him; Wetherly coughed as if in warning.
"Is he still a man?" Loomis asked.
"It's too early to say," Wetherly said. "He's a hell of a mess. These men were experts."
"Real experts?" Loomis asked.
"Experts' experts." Wetherly hesitated, then said: "He's not precisely sane yet, Loomis. He may never be sane again."
Loomis glowered at Chinn.
"I thought you told me he was going off anyway," he said.
"Not like this," said Chinn. "This may have altered the whole rhythm of the process. If you'd any idea what they did to him—"
"But I have," said Loomis, then added, "an idea. I want to know how it affects his mind."
"He'll be in pain for some days yet. We have him under strong sedation."
"Is that really necessary?"
"Essential," said Chinn. "We reduced the dosage this morning, and a nurse came to change his dressings. His left hand is bandaged. He almost killed her with his right. If Chinn and I had not been there—"
"He's extraordinarily strong," said Chinn, and shot his cuffs. One was crumpled.
"And fast," said Loomis. "And clever. Not fearless. Not even loonies are that crazy. But he thrives on fear. He needs it."
"He uses it," said Wetherly, "to drive himself. Or he did before this happened."
Loomis sat very still.
"Are you telling me he's finished?" he asked.
Wetherly shrugged. "I can't answer you yet. He's in shock. Deep shock. He's bound to be for several days. If we try to interfere with that he really will be finished."
"All right," Loomis growled.
"All we can go on so far is what comes out of his unconscious mind. He relives what Simmons did to him continuously. And of course he screams—"
"You're sure it's Simmons?"
"Sometimes he's a cowboy figure, a sort of Jesse James—sometimes he's a tycoon, but it's always Simmons. And a man called Zelko. And a girl. Jane. She's in the background somewhere. She betrayed him to Simmons."
"Simmons's daughter," said Loomis. "What a way to protect your daughter's honor—"
"There's a great deal of cowboy fantasy involved," said Wetherly. "Gun fights, stagecoach, saloon. All that. What happened to him may overlap a childhood fantasy."
"I doubt it," Chinn said. "The detail is too clear, and too consistent."
Loomis said impatiently: "You can sort that out when he's conscious."
"There's one thing we may not be able to sort out," Chinn said. "He weeps, Loomis. Weeps all the time. His pillow is constantly wet with his tears."
"He tried to kill the nurse," Loomis said.
Wetherly said: "He wept even when he was doing that."
Loomis sighed, his pendulous cheeks inflating like balloons.
"It's a bloody nuisance," he said. "I need him. Need him badly."
"No doubt you have a job for him tonight," said Chinn.
"I have a job for him every night," said Loomis. "But I can wait a week." Chinn looked at him as if he were a problem in
chess.
"I didn't think it was possible for me to hate anyone any more," he said. "The nature of my work insulates me from"—his hand gestured—"all that. But I find you singularly repellent, Loomis. That man has suffered unbelievable agonies on your behalf. There is more than a chance that he did not betray you—"
"We're covered if he has," Loomis said.
"—and all you can think of is to subject him to the same risks once more."
Loomis said: "I need him. I need him to destroy Simmons. Because Simmons and his pals are making trouble for us with the Russkies. So far it's just middle-sized trouble—the kind that ends in iron curtains. But it could be big trouble in time. The biggest. The kind that ends in twenty-megaton bombs and Chinese commissars in Wigan. So I want to stop it now. And Craig's the best weapon I've got for it."
"What about this man Hornsey?" asked Chinn.
"What about him?"
"He rescued Craig," said Chinn. "Brought him back here. Craig loves him for it."
"You mean he's a fairy now?"
"I mean he's formed a strong emotional attachment based on gratitude. Emotional involvement has always been difficult for Craig."
"I wish it had been impossible," Loomis said. "What were you going to say about Hornsey?"
"Couldn't he do Craig's job?"
"No," said Loomis.
"But surely—"
"He doesn't work for Department K," said Loomis. "And now you tell me Craig loves him."
After three days they relaxed the sedation; after five, he could control his bladder again. By that time the marks on his body were fading, the dislocated finger usable, the cracked ribs reduced to a caution against unwary movement. Even the burn marks had begun to heal, and the pain lived most vividly in his nightmares, though these were still frequent and intense. Carefully Wetherly and Chinn began to explore the damage that pain had done to his mind, moving into it with the caution of architects in a house suspected of dry rot.
It took them three days, but at last they were sure, and left Craig enshrouded in sleep, like a silkworm in silk. Then, and only then, would they permit Loomis to look at him. He waddled into the room set aside as a ward with the vast, clumsy menace of a gorilla, then looked down at Craig, peering into his face. For the only time since Loomis had known him, Craig made no reaction to his nearness. He lay perfectly still, his breathing almost silent, the harshness gone from his face so that it seemed as if he were his own younger brother, married and mortgaged and at peace.
"What's he on?" said Loomis, and they told him.
Loomis grunted. "We could march a brass band through here and he wouldn't even dream."
Wetherly nodded. "He needs all the rest we can give him," he said.
"Looks a bloody sight better than he did before Simmons got him," Loomis said, and added with the painstaking thoroughness of one to whom praise is meaningless: "You blokes must have had your work cut out."
Chinn said: "At least he's sane now," Loomis glowered at him. "Sometimes people who have undergone his particular form of maltreatment become hopelessly neurotic. Craig has not."
"Reflexes?" asked Loomis.
"The indications are that they are unimpaired. He's in no condition yet for extensive tests."
"What about his nerve?" Loomis asked.
Wetherly said "Ah!" Chinn studied the tips of his fingers.
Loomis looked at the sleeping man's mouth. Always before it had been a hard line parallel with his forehead; now its corners turned down, almost into gentleness.
"You'd better get on with it," he said.
Wetherly said: "Simmons attacked his maleness in the most literal sense. Craig's mind appears to have converted that fact into metaphor."
"Never mind the codology," said Loomis automatically. "I have to know."
Wetherly tried again. "Craig was the most utterly masculine man I have ever known," he said. "He was hard, aggressive, ruthless. A tremendous fighter—and when he fought—completely without pity. Killing the right sort of enemy was part of being a man, to Craig.