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but not too distant moment, the degree of this total torture would destroy his mind, and that,
even if his body somehow lived on. It was horrible. It could not be stood much longer, even
by Glenn. While the current was on, of course, he could not make a sound. Could not
breathe. Could only feel the increase of his agony and terror. It stopped.
Glenn sagged and gasped.
The two police-inquisitors exchanged a few words. Marlon spoke while Glenn was
still sucking air and drooling, while sweat still blinded him. Okay. Now look. We re in a
hurry. You can have your choice. Either come clean about where you were, or else, brother,
we ll start shoving up these treatments till your control goes out and you ll scream the truth
and probably keep screaming for years, afterward!
It seemed possible. Glenn knew what he was going, to do: tell them where he had
been. He knew, however, that would only lead to the question he dared not answer: what was
his mission at Boiling Wells? For he thought, now, to the extent he was able to think, that this
whole affair was somebody s infernal attempt to wring from him the fact that he was going to
squeal about his mission at Boiling Wells, to the President.
It was not, of course, a rational idea. It did not account for all that had happened. But
once he was under torture, he was not capable of rational processes. The plain intent of
wringing from him who he was, where he d been and surely, in the end on what errand
left him with the mistaken conviction that, somehow, he had been forced into a series of
nightmarish hallucinations that became reality only here and now, as the interrogation began.
Given tune to think, Glenn would soon have realized that solution made no sense. If
they had done all this to him to make him admit he was going to tell the President about the
meeting in the desert, they already must have guessed that. He was, in such a case,
completely in their power. They could make bun dream as he had been and imagine such
bizarre images were real. Why, then, all that, to preface this?
But he had no time. The thirty minutes of torture had seemed hours, already. His
frantic, fighting mind was unable to find a moment for recovery, analysis, or anything but the
heightening dread of the next application of their unbelievable torments. He was beginning to
get his breath now, and trying to brace for the next, icy question.
He saw the Captain lean forward to frame it.
It wasn t spoken. A voice belted over the loud speaker. Marlon! The Captain
flinched.
Yes, Chief?
Hold everything!
Yes, sir. But
How is the prisoner?
Tough.
How many jolts?
Eleven!
Jesus Christ Almighty! Marlon spoke defensively.
Orders were to hurry the guy
All right! All right. They were wrong!
Wrong, Chief?
Yes. And forget that! Is the man in any shape at all?
For what, sir?
The high, penetrating voice went even higher. The Mayor wants to talk to Mr.
Howard, right away!
Glenn stared at his inquisitors. They were, of course, frightened. But they merely
looked blank. As they had looked, the whole time. He caught Marlon s eye. He grinned
faintly. The Captain gaped.
The Chief of Police, Glenn presumed, yelled again, Are you on? The Mayor
Yes, Chief. He s stood up, so far, pretty well. Seems at least well mind s
working. He can probably walk.
Christ, man, he s got to be in good shape! They didn t even know we d started on
him! The order to hurry it was from me, damn it to hell! Probably lose the job! I ll send Doc
Weddin in. Do what you can. He s to get Class A clothes, so help me God! An Alpha-plus,
no less! He s actually some big shot !
This shift did not surprise Glenn. That it shocked the LAPD Chief was deserved and
if some of these cold bastards lost rank, fine! Glen smiled now and tried to stand. When he
couldn t, the Captain said, anguishedly, Oh, God!
The sergeant ran around the table and helped Glenn rise. He was pale, sick and
fawning. Come on, my friend. Let s try to get a little strength in those legs. The Doctor
arrived in a short while.
Glenn was given a quick examination and two hypos. The police physician kept tabs
on his pulse while the drugs worked. Glenn felt as if he was recovering from total prostration
to find vigorous health and in ten minutes, when a capsule and a dose of some exotic-
tasting liquid were added to his medication, he realized he was becoming a little high, even.
As if he were not two-martini-high but what?
As if he d been given a shot of morphine as when he d had that shoulder after the
eighty-yard run and the spill in the end zone, the unnecessary and violent butting that put him
out of the game for the rest of that year. It was a good feeling, a little too good, and maybe a
good LSD trip might start that way. Everything so sharp, colors so vivid, sounds so clear
and musical.
He went through the next interval in that uplifted state, saying little and only when
there were questions. They took him to a shop and chose clothing a sort of lightweight,
tight but stretchy garment for his legs and torso, partly transparent. An open, capelike jacket,
both garments in shades of orange-brown, one lighter, and the cape, about like his hair,
perhaps not quite so dark. Then there was a ride in a series of these arcadelike streets where
he saw lots of people, not so brightly or sleekly dressed, a few excepted.
In this delightful and dreamlike state he noticed a few things but none bothered him.
The pedestrians were almost all people from twenty to forty or so. No kids. School, he
assumed. And the women were very attractive. The men, fit. Their garments, like his, weren t
designed to hide much. Women s breasts were not just visible as shapes but often truly
visible through transparent bodices his word. Men s genitals showed as contour and, often,
the pubic hair of both sexes could be seen as a dark or light or in between triangle. His own
clothes allowed the same visibility but, at the moment, it did not greatly trouble Glenn.
He observed that these streets they were far longer than any arcade were mean.
Shops were small. The largest of the business places were cafeterias. And there were graffiti
on bare walls, on store fronts, which he made not much sense of though he presumed they
were obscene in intent and certainly they were in English. The overhead roof, too, where
the street lights were fixed, seemed to be rock, naked, gouged, scraped and without any effort
at rearranging, smoothing. Like mines, he thought.
But it didn t matter.
People, police, very polite, were escorting him with respect, sometimes pointing out
an item of interest a theatre, a fountain, a statue of some President unheard of, a side street
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