David tried another tack. ''Where are Martineau and Henderson? I want to see them. What have you done with them?''

''Take a look for yourself.'' Wilkins pointed to the doorway to the next chamber.

David glimpsed two bodies under blankets on the floor. Bloodstains had soaked through the material.

His stomach lurched with horror and disgust.

The disgust was good. Disgust contained anger. Anger gave strength.

He turned back to Wilkins and said, simply, ''Cunt.''

Wilkins sighed and rolled his eyes. ''So free with the insults, Lieutenant Westwynter. It diminishes you in my eyes. A man who feels the need to belittle others all the time must have a very low opinion of himself.''

''You're right,'' David said. ''I take it back. You're not a cunt. You're a sanctimonious cunt.''

Wilkins blinked slowly, looking for all the world like the aggrieved parent of a badly behaving child.

Then, in one swift movement, he stood and slapped David across the cheek, backhand.

His knuckles split open a bruise that the minus-an-ear Nephthysian had put there earlier. David hissed as warm blood trickled down his face and onto his neck.

Wilkins reseated himself. His two subordinates outside, glancing in, chuckled.

''I trust I won't have to do any more of that,'' he said. ''I would much rather you co-operated. That was basically why I did what I did to your men. To let you know that I am someone who means business but would much prefer to do business, if you see what I mean.''

''You could have left them alone,'' David said thickly. ''They didn't know anything.''

''Precisely. Whereas you, I am sure, do know something.''

''What are you after? What the fuck do you want from me?''

''Information,'' said Wilkins. ''Merely information. As much of it as possible. About troops. Locations. Numbers. Fortified positions. Plans. Anything and everything you can tell me.''