Read Online Prisoners of Tomorrow by James P. Hogan - Free Book Online
Authors: James P. Hogan
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the book, and went behind the partition to the washbasin to rinse his face. He felt unusually lead-limbed and sluggish when he walked.
He had seen nothing of Paula since their arrest. The interrogations had been constant and relentless, but so far he hadn’t been treated improperly. That wasn’t necessarily grounds for comfort, however. No doubt the Soviets intended to exploit the propaganda opportunities of the situation to their fullest, and had no intention of compromising their advantage by laying themselves open to counteraccusations. But how long that political condition might persist was another matter, he reflected as he wiped cold water from his eyes and peered at his reflection in the polished-metal mirror cemented to the wall. Certainly the Russians would be in no hurry to ease the pressure on the US, which probably had something to do with his not being permitted to communicate with his own authorities back on Earth. In fact, he had been told nothing to indicate even if the incident was public knowledge yet.
He had just emerged from the washroom and was about to put on his shirt, when the panel behind the grille on the door slid aside and voices sounded outside. A pair of eyes scrutinized him for a moment, and then came the sound of the door being unlocked. It opened, and a tall, lean man with gray hair and a pointed beard entered, followed by a younger, darker-skinned companion. Both were wearing white, hip-length physician’s smocks and gray-white check pants. There were also two uniformed guards, who remained outside in the corridor when the bearded man swung the door shut. McCain tensed, but the manner of the two was not threatening.
“Well, how do you feel this morning?” the bearded man inquired. His tone was intermediate between genial and matter-of-fact, as if he presumed that McCain knew what he was talking about. McCain looked at him and said nothing. “Fatigued? Not quite coordinated? A little hazy in the head, eh?” He sat back against the edge of the table and folded his arms to look McCain up and down. The younger man put down a black medical bag that he had been holding. “Well, come on,” the bearded man said after a short pause. “The patient can hardly help us look after his interests if he won’t say anything, can he?”
“What interests?” McCain asked. “What are you talking about?”
The bearded man regarded him curiously. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” he said.
A pause. “No.”
“Oh, dear.” The bearded man glanced aside at his colleague. “I think we may have a complete block here.” Then, back at McCain, “My name is Dr. Kazhakin. We have met before, I assure you—several times, in fact. You’ve been a little sick, you understand.” He gestured nonchalantly. “It’s not uncommon among people unaccustomed to an offplanet environment. Space-acclimatization sickness. The weightlessness during the trip up plays a part, and so does the excess of cosmic rays, but primarily it’s an upset of the balance mechanism caused by adapting to a rotating structure. The effects can be quite disruptive until the nervous system learns to compensate.”
“Really?” McCain sounded unconvinced. “And that causes amnesia?”
“We put you under a rather strong sedative,” Kazhakin explained. “You’ve been out for a couple of days. What you’re feeling is the aftereffect. Sometimes the memory can be impaired slightly—rather like a bump on the head.”
Although McCain’s expression didn’t change, inwardly he felt alarmed. Kazhakin was trying to justify memory loss and symptoms of the aftereffects of drugs. As McCain knew well, some extremely potent substances were available to psychological researchers and therapists, and to military and police interrogators. Although there was no truly reliable “truth drug” of the kind beloved in fiction, combined chemical assaults of different stimulants and depressants affected different individuals in different
He had seen nothing of Paula since their arrest. The interrogations had been constant and relentless, but so far he hadn’t been treated improperly. That wasn’t necessarily grounds for comfort, however. No doubt the Soviets intended to exploit the propaganda opportunities of the situation to their fullest, and had no intention of compromising their advantage by laying themselves open to counteraccusations. But how long that political condition might persist was another matter, he reflected as he wiped cold water from his eyes and peered at his reflection in the polished-metal mirror cemented to the wall. Certainly the Russians would be in no hurry to ease the pressure on the US, which probably had something to do with his not being permitted to communicate with his own authorities back on Earth. In fact, he had been told nothing to indicate even if the incident was public knowledge yet.
He had just emerged from the washroom and was about to put on his shirt, when the panel behind the grille on the door slid aside and voices sounded outside. A pair of eyes scrutinized him for a moment, and then came the sound of the door being unlocked. It opened, and a tall, lean man with gray hair and a pointed beard entered, followed by a younger, darker-skinned companion. Both were wearing white, hip-length physician’s smocks and gray-white check pants. There were also two uniformed guards, who remained outside in the corridor when the bearded man swung the door shut. McCain tensed, but the manner of the two was not threatening.
“Well, how do you feel this morning?” the bearded man inquired. His tone was intermediate between genial and matter-of-fact, as if he presumed that McCain knew what he was talking about. McCain looked at him and said nothing. “Fatigued? Not quite coordinated? A little hazy in the head, eh?” He sat back against the edge of the table and folded his arms to look McCain up and down. The younger man put down a black medical bag that he had been holding. “Well, come on,” the bearded man said after a short pause. “The patient can hardly help us look after his interests if he won’t say anything, can he?”
“What interests?” McCain asked. “What are you talking about?”
The bearded man regarded him curiously. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” he said.
A pause. “No.”
“Oh, dear.” The bearded man glanced aside at his colleague. “I think we may have a complete block here.” Then, back at McCain, “My name is Dr. Kazhakin. We have met before, I assure you—several times, in fact. You’ve been a little sick, you understand.” He gestured nonchalantly. “It’s not uncommon among people unaccustomed to an offplanet environment. Space-acclimatization sickness. The weightlessness during the trip up plays a part, and so does the excess of cosmic rays, but primarily it’s an upset of the balance mechanism caused by adapting to a rotating structure. The effects can be quite disruptive until the nervous system learns to compensate.”
“Really?” McCain sounded unconvinced. “And that causes amnesia?”
“We put you under a rather strong sedative,” Kazhakin explained. “You’ve been out for a couple of days. What you’re feeling is the aftereffect. Sometimes the memory can be impaired slightly—rather like a bump on the head.”
Although McCain’s expression didn’t change, inwardly he felt alarmed. Kazhakin was trying to justify memory loss and symptoms of the aftereffects of drugs. As McCain knew well, some extremely potent substances were available to psychological researchers and therapists, and to military and police interrogators. Although there was no truly reliable “truth drug” of the kind beloved in fiction, combined chemical assaults of different stimulants and depressants affected different individuals in different
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