“Such dreadful soup,” he said. “But I’m a lot better, thank you. Was it to have been murder this time, too, Scheherazade? Would the entire cupful have made a pretty angel of me? Oh, fie! Naughty Scheherazade!”
She remained mute.
“Didn’t you mean manslaughter with intent to exterminate?” he insisted, watching her.
Perhaps she was thinking of her blond and bearded companion, and the open port, for she made no reply.
“Why didn’t you let him heave me out?” inquired Neeland. “Why did you object?” 211
At that she reddened to the roots of her hair, understanding that what she feared had been true—that Neeland, while physically helpless, had retained sufficient consciousness to be aware of what was happening to him and to understand at least a part of the conversation.
“What was the stuff with which you flavoured that soup, Scheherazade?”
He was merely baiting her; he did not expect any reply; but, to his surprise, she answered him:
“Threlanium—Speyer’s solution is what I used,” she said with a sort of listless effrontery.
“Don’t know it. Don’t like it, either. Prefer other condiments.”