"The Bedchamber Assassin! I knew that I'd seen your face somewhere."
"So you do sneak and read the scandals, like most of your mechanics' caste. Tch, tch! To think that you secretly admire us, who live upon the brink and savor life while it lasts."
"I could hardly admire you. You are credited with killing twelve women." Stephen shuddered.
Turpan inclined his handsome head sardonically. "Such is the artistic license of the press. Actually there were only nine—until this morning, I regret to say. And one of those died in the ecstacy of awakening to find me hovering over her virginal bed. I suppose she had a weak heart. I kill only when it is unavoidable. But so long as my lady will wear jewels and keep them on her boudoir dressing table—" He shrugged. "Naturally, I am sometimes interrupted."
"And then you murder them."
"Let us say that I make them a sporting proposition. I am not bad to look upon—I think you will admit that fact. Unless they happen to be hysterical to begin with, I can invariably dominate them. Face the facts, my stodgy technician. Murder is a term for equals. A woman is a lesser, though a fascinating, creature. The law of humane grace does not apply equally to her. It must be a humiliating thing to be a woman, and yet it is necessary that a supply of them be provided. Must we who are fortunate in our male superiority deny our natures to keep from trampling them occasionally? No indeed. 'Sensualists are they; a trouble and a terror is the hero to them. Thus spake Zarathustra'."
"That is a quotation from an ancient provincial who was said to be as mad as you are," Stephen said, rallying slightly, but revising his opinion of the uncouthness of his captor.
"I have studied the old books," Turpan said. "They are mostly pap, but once I thought that the answers might be discovered there. You may set down now."
"But we must be miles from any land."
"Take a look," Turpan said.