She turned, saw his pale face, and hurried to him. "Can you make it to
the washroom?"
"I don't think--"
"No, he cannot," Illyanov interrupted, coming over and holding a
wastebasket.
Odeon had time for a grateful look before his stomach completed its
rebellion. He felt Joanie's hand stroking his head, heard both
Inquisitors telling him it was all right as they helped him into the
suite's outer room and got him seated. When he was finished, Joanie
handed him a towel; he wiped his mouth and looked up at them. "I'm
sorry."
"That is a normal reaction," Illyanov said calmly. "There is no need
to apologize; you did better than could have been expected."
"You should've left if it bothered you," Cortin said. "I'd like to
have you backing me, yes, but not if my work's going to upset you like
this."
"I'll get used to it," Odeon said stubbornly. "I can't promise I'll
ever get to like it, but I will learn to handle it well enough to give
you any backup you need."
"You set yourself a difficult task," Illyanov said. "I feel safe in
predicting you will not come to like it; observing you, I would say you
lack the quirk of mind required to take pleasure in another's pain.
With adequate motivation, time, and exposure, however, you may develop
enough tolerance to be able to assist."
"I'll settle for that." Odeon's stomach churned again at the thought
of doing what Illyanov had, unsure whether he was pleased or not at the
Major's prognosis. In a way, it'd be good to share Joanie's pleasure
even in that . . . "What do I do, sit in on all her interrogations?"
"I would normally recommend that you begin with a less talented
Inquisitor," Illyanov said, "as that would be less unpleasant for you.
However, Captain Cortin is the one you will be teamed with, so perhaps
it would indeed be as well if you work with her from the beginning."
"Less talented?" Odeon asked, puzzled. "That doesn't make sense."
"If you think for a moment," Illyanov said gently, "you will find it
makes very good sense. One with less talent cannot judge tolerances as
well, is not as sensitive to an individual subject's particular dreads,
is more likely to believe lies told to please him and stop the
interrogation, and--although this is also true of Captain Cortin, until
she acquires experience to match her theoretical knowledge and raw
talent--apt to let the subject die before extracting all possible
information."
"Put that way, it does make sense," Odeon admitted. "I've never
thought about Inquisitors very much--or the talents you have to have."
"Few people do," Illyanov said drily. "Few people care to think much
about us, fewer still about how we obtain our results--even though they
have no objections to using those results. We get few thanks and less
praise for what we do, so it is well that God grants us the mercy of
deriving our satisfaction from the work itself."
Odeon nodded. That was something else he'd never thought about . . .
and again, it made sense. "I understand, I think. So I'll work with
her whenever she's doing an interrogation, then?"
"Yes. When you feel able to assist, you will of course be covered by
her Warrant." He looked at his watch, then grinned ruefully at Cortin.
"I thought we had been busy for some time, but I had not realized I had
lost track of time to this degree. It is almost midnight--I think we
had best call it a day immediately, and pray Doctor Egan does not find
out how late I kept you. I am not feeling sucicidal enough to face her
if she feels I have been overworking you again."
"Neither am I! Once was more than enough." The chewing out Egan had
given tham when she'd caught them in a tutoring session after visiting
hours was one Cortin would remember with respect for some time. "See
you at breakfast?"
"It would be my pleasure."
* * * * *
Cortin slept soundly, and when she woke early it was in anticipation of
assisting at Mike's First Mass and then celebrating her own. She found
herself looking forward to both of them more than she could remember
having done since her First Communion, after the way the previous day's
had made her feel.
Her anticipation suffered a setback, though, when she found a note from
Mike in her message box; he'd been asked to say his First Mass for some
newly-arrived Strike Force selectees, and he said she would have as
well if she hadn't still been on hospital status. She didn't see how
saying Mass could be more strenuous than conducting
interrogations--though maybe Egan didn't know she'd done any--but she
couldn't object.