"My secretary and general assistant, Miss Casimir." The politician's voice was sonorous, a beautifully controlled instrument. He leaned across the desk. The recorder by his elbow whirred in the flat soundproofed stillness.
"Mr. Dalgetty," he said, "I want you to understand that we aren't fiends. There are things too important for ordinary rules though. Wars have been fought over them in the past and may well be fought again. It will be easier for all concerned if you cooperate with us now. No one need ever know that you have done so."
"Suppose I answer your questions," said Dalgetty. "How do you know I'll be telling the truth?"
"Neoscopolamine, of course. I don't think you've been immunized. It confuses the mind too much for us to interrogate you about these complex matters under its influence but we will surely find out if you have been answering our present questions correctly."
"And what then? Do you just let me go?"
Bancroft shrugged. "Why shouldn't we? We may have to keep you here for awhile but soon you will have ceased to matter and can safely be released."
Dalgetty considered. Not even he could do much against truth drugs. And there were still more radical procedures, prefrontal lobotomy for instance. He shivered. The leatherite straps felt damp against his thin clothing.
He looked at Bancroft. "What do you really want?" he asked. "Why are you working for Bertrand Meade?"
Bancroft's heavy mouth lifted in a smile. "I thought you were supposed to answer the questions," he said.
"Whether I do or not depends on whose questions they are," said Dalgetty. Stall for time! Put it off, the moment of terror, put it off! "Frankly, what I know of Meade doesn't make me friendly. But I could be wrong."