"You're stalling, sweetheart."
"Duke, give me a break. I really didn't know a thing about this. I--"
He looked down at her for a moment. "I gave you a break," he said.
"You've wasted it. Now we'll try it the other way. If we work a few
squeals into the recording, that'll make it more convincing to
Lancion. He'll figure little Reetal's the type who wouldn't spill a
thing like that without a little pressure." He checked himself,
grinned. "And that reminds me. When you're talking for the record, use
your own voice."
"My own voice?" she half whispered.
"Nome will remember what you sound like--and I've heard that voice
imitations are part of your stock in trade. You might think it was
cute if Nome got to wondering after you were dead whether that really
had been you talking. Don't try it, sweetheart."
He brought a glove out of his jacket pocket, slipped it over his left
hand, flexing his fingers to work it into position. Reetal's eyes
fastened on the rounded metal tips capping thumb, forefinger and
middle finger of the glove. Her face went gray.
"Duke," she said, "No--"
"Shut up." He brought out a strip of transparent plastic, moved over
to her. The gloved hand went into her hair, gripped it, turned her
face up. He laid the plastic gag lengthwise over her mouth, pressed it
down and released it. Reetal closed her eyes.
"That'll keep it shut," he said. "Now--" His right hand clamped about
the back of her neck, forcing her head down and forward almost to her
knees. The gloved left hand brushed her hair forwards, then its middle
finger touched the skin at a point just above her shoulder blades.
"Right there," Fluel said. The finger stiffened, drove down.
Reetal jerked violently, twisted, squirmed sideways, wrists straining
against the grip of the armrests. Her breath burst out of her
nostrils, followed by squeezed, whining noises. The metal-capped
finger continued to grind savagely against the nerve center it had
found.
"Thirty," Fluel said finally. He drew his hand back, pulled her
upright again, peeled the gag away from her lips. "Only thirty
seconds, sweetheart. Think you'd sooner play along now?"
Reetal's head nodded.
"Fine. Give you a minute to steady up. This doesn't really waste much
time, you see--" He took up the recorder, sat down on the chair again,
watching her. She was breathing raggedly and shallowly, eyes wide and
incredulous. She didn't look at him.
The Duke lit another cigarette.
"Incidentally," he observed, "if you were stalling because you hoped
old Bad News might show up, forget it. If the boys haven't gunned him
down by now, he's tied up on a job the commodore gave him to do. He'll
be busy another hour or two on that. He--"
He checked himself. A central section of the wall paneling across the
room from him had just dilated open. Old Bad News stood in the
concealed suite portal, Rest Warden Kinmarten slung across his
shoulder.
Both men moved instantly. Fluel's long legs bounced him sideways out
of the chair, right hand darting under his coat, coming out with a
gun. Quillan turned to the left to get Kinmarten out of the way. The
big Miam Devil seemed to jump into his hand. Both guns spoke together.
Fluel's gun thudded to the carpet. The Duke said, "Ah-aa-ah!" in a
surprised voice, rolled up his eyes, and followed the gun down.