I said to Fenrek: “One more cup of coffee, and then we’ll go.”

I wondered if we were being too cruel. To anyone, even to a man like Histermann, the thought of an imminent, certain, and extremely painful death is a terrible torture. And then I thought of the kindly General Queluz hanging there in the darkness, thought of the terror on Astrid’s face as we went down into that lobster trap to a casual, but certain death...I thought of this man sticking out a straight arm and brutally shoving her down there. And then, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Soon we went back into the police station. I collected the little black bag Loureiro had found for me, watched Fenrek switch on the tape recorder that was wired in to cell number eight, and went down to talk to the prisoner.

I was shocked by his appearance. He lay on the wooden bunk, clutching at his stomach, doubled up in pain and grey faced; a man with a naturally yellow complexion doesn’t look his best when all the blood has drained away from it, and he looked like hell. His skin was dry and flecked with a pink rash that couldn’t really get to be the proper color, so that his hollow cheeks looked like a piece of moldy cheese; I expected the sweet stench of Gorgonzola to rise from him, but it didn’t.

I said cheerfully: “Well, what seems to be the trouble? A little fever?”

He said: “For Gods sake, Doctor, I’m...I’m...”

I said: “I’m not a doctor, but that doesn’t matter, does it?” I felt his pulse, which was beating at an alarming rate, and opened up the little black bag slowly, and said: “Probably malaria, you’ve had it before, haven’t you?”

He said, gasping: “Not malaria. Botulin poisoning. I need some...some of that...that stuff you spoke about...that BR stuff. Hurry...hurry, for God’s sake, I’ve been sick already, and my feet...my feet are going dead.”

I sat on the edge of the bunk and looked at him. “Botulin? What makes you think that? Are you qualified to diagnose your own sickness? I think not, surely. Or have you recently been in contact with a botulin carrier?”

He rolled over again and clutched at his stomach. There was no thought in him now of anything but himself. He tried hard to speak; the panic was taking firm hold. He said at last, spluttering: “You mentioned...you mentioned...Loveless.” He couldn’t stop the sibilant, and it came out: Lovelesssss.

“Ah, then you did know him.”

“For God’s sake yes, give me some of that stuff, quickly.”

I took my time. I stuck a thermometer in his mouth and lifted an eyelid to peer at his pupils. I said:

“Try and stand up with your eyes closed.”

He huddled deeper up into himself, a fetus shivering there and squeezing itself into nothingness.

I said: “Stand up, there’s a good fellow.”

He could barely speak. “An injection, quickly...”

I said severely: “Please don’t try to advise me, Mr. Histermann. Now, stand up and close your eyes.”

He struggled to his feet, swayed, and clutched at the wall.

“Close your eyes.”

He did so, and immediately fell forward. I let him fall to the ground, and he rolled over on his back and stared up at me in horror. A doctor letting a patient fall like that? And now he knew that there was something terrible going on and he couldn’t understand what it was. Couldn’t understand because of the drug, because for him lights were flashing, fear was sweeping over him, and unimaginable things were happening inside his brain, twisting it this way and that, showing him a clarity that wasn’t there at all and then brutally replacing it with a fantasy that was even worse.

In short, he was on a trip.

I said carefully, keeping up the lie: “I can save your life if I inject you within the next half hour or so. After that, I’m afraid it’s going to be too late.”

“Then...then...hurry, for God’s sake. Hurry, man.”

He rolled over onto his face and clutched at the bunk, dragging himself up onto it. Halfway there, he twisted his head and glared at me; he knew already.

He said thickly: “Not a doctor at all...you’re another...you’re a copper, aren’t you?”

I said: “It’s now nine-thirty. By ten o’clock you’ll be over the mark, past the time you can be saved. So, you’ve got half an hour to make up your mind and answer half an hour’s worth of questions, beginning right now. And if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m just going to walk out and leave you. So help me, I’ll leave you here to die.”

He had the strength, or the courage, to try and disbelieve me. He said, gasping: “Not only a cop, a crooked one...”

I said: “Loveless is dead, and we don’t know where he was hiding. That’s the first question.”

For a long, long time I did not think he was going to answer. He screwed up his eyes with an effort and stared at me. At last he said: “A deal? How can I know...know you’ll keep your end of it?”

I said: “Time’s short, isn’t it? It might really be less than half an hour, it’s hard to tell in these cases.”

He said: “You...you bastard! All right, the injection first.”

“The injection after.”

“A promise?”

He swayed out of control, and suddenly screamed; he clutched at his head and then began banging it against the wall furiously, trying to shatter it in obedience to some unseen and unexpected compulsion. I dragged him away and held him down on the bed, and waited till a moment of coherence came. He didn’t know which end was up, now, and all he could do was answer my questions, obey the disembodied voice that was sitting astride his chest.

The coherence was there again, though it was only momentary. He said, with a touch of grim humor: “So this is what it’s like...how long have I got?”

I said: “You won’t die, not yet, not if you keep talking.”

I wondered how strong his loyalty might be, wondered if it could control the uncertainty, or worse still, the incoherence.

He took a deep and painful breath. His eyes slowly crossed and uncrossed again, an extraordinary sight. He said:

“You’re all...all green and yellow.”

I could only imagine the startling colors that were affecting his vision. He reached out for something in the air and clutched at it, and there was nothing there at all.

I said again: “Where was Loveless hiding?”

He’d made up his mind, or the drug had made it up for him. He said, laboring: “Up by...by the castle.”

“São Jorge?”

“Yes, Rua...rua Vicente, number...eleven.”

“He sleeps there every night?”

“Yes...For God’s sake...Give me a shot...”

“Soon.” He was slipping away again, his body going limp. I shook him and said: “How much of the toxin does he have?”

“Four...four...four...” He was silent.

I shook him again, furiously: “How much?”