Free Assignment - Quayle Question by Edward S. Aarons Page A

all seeded and fertile and growing and related to each other like the field of wheat within her mind—the conglomerate had no emotion except that of self-preservation and growth. She was too valuable to Q.P.I. for Q.P.I. to desert her. They would gain her release, eventually. They would pay the price for her return.
    The world was a place of terror, of international pressures toward violence, playing a politics of fear and death and blackmail and wildly irrational plots that, incredibly, caused sovereign nations to bow meekly to debasing and degrading demands. Yes, she thought, that was it.
    Relax, she told herself.
    It will be over soon enough.
    They won’t hurt Martin, either.
    She was aware of the cool September air, the smells of traffic in the street, the rush and push of passing cars. And then there was an airport, somewhere out in the country, maybe Westchester, she thought, judging by the turns her captors’ oar made. She was pushed into a plane, a small jet, and they took off with the swift efficiency that marked all their moves.
    After that she was not so sure. Whatever had been impregnated in the cloth over her mouth had worn off swiftly, or partially, so her attention was dreamlike, her span of concentration dimmed and attenuated. She was not sure how long the flight lasted. She guessed it was almost four hours, but it could have been longer or shorter; she could not tell.
    The landing was rough, which meant a small or ill-kept private airstrip. They made sure her blindfold was still secure, and then hustled into another car. She was aware of an abnormal chill in the air, a sharp biting cold that made her shiver. She felt the car climb and climb. The air grew even colder. It felt dry. She was wearing only the simple little black frock with which she had meant to meet Martin in her apartment. No one in the oar spoke or complained or thought to give her something warmer to wear.
    Then she was in a building, and the contrasting wave of hot, humid heat struck her like a blow.
    The heat in the building was something she would always remember. It was like something out of a tropical rain forest. She could not understand it.
    And then her cell.
    And the silence.
    She was left blindfolded. She waited for some time, for long minutes after she heard locks snap and bolts thrown home. No one came to her. She sensed she was alone.
    She reached up and untied the blindfold knotted at the back of her head.
    She was still blind.
    The darkness seemed absolute.
    She wanted to whimper, to cry out, to yell and scream. Terror tore her mind apart. She simply stood in the center of a blackness as deep as the deepest part of black interstellar space. She bit her lip and tasted the salt of her blood, and refused to make a sound.
    Finally she sank down to her hands and knees. The floor was of stone. It felt warm under the palms of her hands. She lay down on her side, as if floating in the infinite darkness of space.
    And waited.
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    “Deborah, you have been hostile and negative toward me.”
    “What do you expect?”
    “I have no more time for you. I believe it is now necessary to demonstrate to you that this is not a game we play, that my intentions are most earnest. I will not be balked by any devices you imagine will keep me from learning what I wish to know.”
    “I don’t know what you want.”
    “I want you to know that when I ask you a question, I intend to receive a proper reply.”
    “All right. I’ve done so.”
    “You have not. You have lied. You have tried to be devious. Not a good policy toward the Messenger.” 
    “What messenger?”
    “It is a title, not a servant’s status.”
    “I’m not convinced that you are sane.”
    “I do not try to convince you of that. Will you now tell me about Martin Pentecost and his suspicions?”
    “Why not ask him?”
    “It is not possible.”
    “He got away? Really?”
    “In a