He held up his hand. On the back of it was what appeared to be a boil.
"But it isn't a boil," Murray explained. "That was done by a stream of water, fine as a needle, under a thousand pounds pressure. They held it there for a minute at a time—I don't know how many times, because I keeled over. Any time I was willing to give them the information they wanted they'd turn it off. Wasn't important info, either. But what is it to them, how much they make me suffer for a trifle?"
Sime couldn't help the lump that rose in his throat. Men like Murray certainly justified the world's faith in the service.
"Listen, old man," Sime said in a low voice, "out in the corridor—"
But Murray squeezed his hand warningly, pulled him to the floor.
"Might as well get some sleep," the old man said in ordinary tones. "Plenty cool here. Let's lie together."
He kept his hold on Sime's wrist, and, by alternately squeezing and releasing, began to talk in a silent telegraphic code.
"Don't say anything of importance," he spelled out. "They have mikes in here to pick up all we say. Probably infra-red telenses too, so they can see what we do."
So Sime told him, as they huddled together in simulated sleep, about the walled passages, and they speculated on the possibility of felling the guards and breaking their way to freedom through some underground cavern. But at last they slept soundly to await the tortures of the next morning.