Free Prisoner of Fire by Edmund Cooper Page B

us. That there are flaws in this programme, I am aware. We do not know precisely where Vanessa is.
    “We do not know this because she herself does not know it. But we do know that she has comfortable surroundings, that she is physically fit and that she feels secure. We know that she is in a country cottage and that she is being protected—if that is the right word—by an artist who calls himself Oliver Anderson. We have found all these things in Vanessa’s mind.”
    “He hasn’t screwed her,” interrupted Janine. “I would have known if he had.” She gave a twisted smile. “Even if I didn’t have it with her at the time, I would have known.”
    “Dear Janine,” said Professor Raeder in a deceptively gentle tone, “we are all painfully aware of your major interest in life. Please do not let it intrude upon rational discussion of a problem. Otherwise, I may be reluctantly compelled to apply electrodes to your temples.”
    Janine blanched at the threat. “I thought it was important,” she said defensively. “If he screws her properly, she won’t have any blocks left. Then we get a clear picture.”
    “Janine, the crudity of your expression is matched only by your inability to concentrate upon anything but personal gratification.” The Professor’s voice hardened. “You really will have to control yourself, my dear. I can assure you that the threat of electro-convulsivetherapy is not an idle threat… Now where was I?”
    Sandra, munching peanuts, said helpfully: “Things we found in Vanessa’s mind.”
    “Ah, yes. From the data you have supplied, my children, certain deductions may be made about this Mr. Anderson. We know he has some facial disfigurement. That knowledge is something Vanessa cannot cancel. We have also learned that, at the beginning, there was some confusion about his name and profession. Vanessa has constructed a deep block about this; and that, in itself, is interesting. Let us consider two hypothesis: one is that Mr. Anderson may be very intelligent, the other is that he may not be what he claims to be.”
    Alfred, smoking pot, was sufficiently with proceedings to say: “Suppositions aren’t going to help us, Prof. We need the hard stuff.”
    Professor Raeder rubbed his hands together and smiled benevolently. “Are they not, Alfred, my boy? Are they not? Let us see. Let us try association of ideas. For example, what does the name Oliver suggest to you? Come on, tell me. No matter how ridiculous, tell me.”
    There was silence for a moment or two. Then Sandra, helping herself to more peanuts, said uncertainly: “Biscuits?”
    Professor Raeder felt happy. For a short time he really could imagine himself back in tutorial with a handful of picked students. “Very good, Sandra. Bath Olivers are a kind of biscuit which I, personally, find very civilised… Now, any other associations?”
    Again there was a silence. Then Robert, who was not eating peanuts or smoking pot or dwelling upon orgasmshe had experienced vicariously, said with some hesitation: “Roland.”
    Professor Raeder seemed both surprised and delighted. “Ah, yes. Roland! Why did you say Roland, dear boy?”
    Robert looked blank. “Don’t know, Prof. It just seemed to come, that’s all.”
    Raeder exuded triumph. None of the young paranormals could really understand his peculiar moods—which, perhaps, was one of the reasons he maintained his power over them. They knew he was exceptionally clever and somewhat vindictive. He had a great talent for dividing and conquering, also a talent for devising peculiarly apt punishments.
    Janine tried a gentle flash probe, and was instantly rewarded with a mental picture of herself, unconscious, jerking horrifically under the stimulus of electro-convulsive therapy. She turned pale.
    “Don’t try that again, Janine,” the Professor said softly. “You have been repeatedly warned of the penalties for attempting to invade my privacy. You are courting disaster.”
    “I’m sorry,