"I think so. But let me work it out. I think I'll go back to my hotel. I have some books there I want to check, and I don't want to be disturbed for a few hours."
"All right," Cercy agreed. "But what—?"
"No, no, I could be wrong," Darrig said. "Let me work it out." He hurried from the room.
"What do you think he's driving at?" Malley asked.
"Beats me," Cercy shrugged. "Come on, let's try some more of that psychological stuff."
First they filled the Ambassador's room with several feet of water. Not enough to drown him, just enough to make him good and uncomfortable.
To this, they added the lights. For eight hours, lights flashed in the Ambassador's room. Bright lights to pry under his eyelids; dull, clashing ones to disturb him.
Sound came next—screeches and screams and shrill, grating noises. The sound of a man's fingernails being dragged across slate, amplified a thousand times, and strange, sucking noises, and shouts and whispers.
Then, the smells. Then, everything else they could think of that could drive a man insane.