"My mother? My father? I—"
Again he stopped. The room was blurred; only the smiling, diabolical face of the Antarctican seemed to be fixed, and all else was whirling. Kesley elbowed himself up from his chair and crossed the room in two quick bounds.
"Damn you, I don't remember! I don't remember!"
He grabbed van Alen roughly by the scruff of his cloak and hauled him to his feet.
"Let go of me, Dale."
The sharp command was all but impossible not to obey, but Kesley, shaking hysterically, continued to hold tight. He clutched for the Antarctican's throat, burning to choke the life out of this torturer before he could ask any more questions.
His hands touched the skin of the Antarctican's throat and then, quite coolly, van Alen broke Kesley's grip. He did it easily, simply grasping the wrists with his own long fingers and lifting.
Kesley struggled, but to no avail. The Antarctican was fantastically strong. Kesley writhed in his grip, but could not break loose. Slowly, without apparent effort, van Alen forced him to his knees and let go.
Kesley made no attempt to rise. He was beaten—physically and mentally. Van Alen stooped, lifted him, eased him to the couch. Drawing forth a scented handkerchief, he mopped perspiration first from Kesley's forehead, then from his own.
"That was unpleasant," van Alen remarked.