What strikes you about this gaunt man is not the stomach pain, or the cough, or the…

"That's all the rich really want -- sex with their own children. Throughout history -- even the royal bloodline of the Suzerain! -- it's all just an excuse for them to have sordid sex. At least that old cunt Frissel is now dead..."

Just nod.

"We did good when we pushed him under that horse car. If only... in the Thirties, those disco whores..." What follows is ominous mumbling. You cannot make out a single word.

The disco whores are too much; hatred shuts down his brain's language centre, leaving only a nonsensical sputter.

What was that about steroids? It piqued your interest...

There was something about a statue, and nihilistic advertising agency people? Might be worth investigating...

And the soucriant, on her yacht -- Joyce? Probably...

Boom-boom morons on thin ice, going under -- those are the tent kids!

Ask about that 'cock on parade' too. Make sure you get everything here.

What was the deal between him and Edgar?

The connection comes to you, like a splash of cold water. Dark, cold water...

"Twenty years ago, when you met Edgar. The Claires didn't run the Union yet, did they?"

"Heh..." A sputter from the old man.

He acknowledges it. Here we go, a twist, behind the dark bend...

"Who did?"

"That bourgeois cow... Tiphaine Holly was her name." He narrows his eyes. "Licked the rich man's hand every time he came to town. Never seen a labour leader so hot on mutual cooperation..."

"And money -- she liked that too. That Holly was a real bridge-builder and a deal-maker..." His eyes glisten suddenly, with hatred.

Bordering on sentimentality, it drips out of him. Tempered by something familiar to you. A familiar rage.

"She was also a woman, wasn't she? Like that Klaasje..."

"She was. And she was real soft on those money-men. Had a Barbara Muskova bag over her shoulder that she liked to bring to work..."

Barbara Muskova and Numb 12, Joyce Messier's choices...

"And then she just... disappeared."

"Called in they say -- on the eve of battle. Ran away. Vanished like a piss-stain..." He squints and smiles at the black logs.

No. That's not quite it, is it?

"Did she?" The lieutenant's voice is calm. "They say her daughter called in, not her personally. But that wasn't really her daughter, was it?"

"No, I guess it was not..." You could swear you see the embers glow again, under his eyes on the dust.

"Edgar had someone make the call -- why is that, Mr. Dros?"

"She couldn't make the call herself."

Here it is. The bend in the river...

The truth!

"Why?"

"Because she was dead."

Just say nothing.

"How come?"

"Because the cow caught a bullet in her right lung. Fell into the canal grasping her tit and drowned. Or bled -- hard to say. It was a sloppy job. On a moving target."

"She was going home, waddling. Dressed in yellow. Drunk like she often was. The ruins were black around her and she had a yellow leather bag under her arm. She tried to cross the canal."

"Heading home to Grand Couron or Betancourt... Some place like that. Where they build those new batiments for the people who flourish in the hell around her. And the ruins..."

Be abstract here. A bit of drama.

"You shot her."

"Someone shot her," he shrugs. His eyes grow cold suddenly. "Or maybe the cow just fell. My memory is full of holes. All I know is..."

Another, big spike of rage. Different from the one he has for her...

"Nothing changed. Not in the material base, not in the hegemony, there was no uprising. Just words... The Union fizzled, sogged. Nothing came of it. Nothing."

"Edgar didn't keep his part of the deal."

"Heh..." A sputter again, nothing more.

"If you were to testify to this -- give the RCM something on Edgar -- you could walk." The lieutenant says in a voice even calmer, as if it were nothing at all.

"We would strike everything you've done and process you as a POW. You were in a war. You were on assignment. We could even extradite you to the Samaran People's Republic."

"A degenerate workers' state? Goat shit? No, thank you. I'm Revacholian," he spits. "My days are short. I will rot away here -- in a Moralintern cell. I will not testify to anything." He coughs.

C'mon. Just a little. You're buddies.

Threaten with PAIN. All human beings respect pain. It's the truth.

"You can tell me, here. It won't be that usable."

"I haven't lived and fought for forty years to end up as a collaborationist. I've heard it -- on Channel 8, 40AM, Radio Revachol Late Night..."

"Everyone is a blobber in this world. Everyone betrays everyone. They're all already locked up -- for betrayal. The best ones, the ones with heart, were slaughtered, trampled..." He looks to the city.

The same old freezing hatred.

There is plenty here to work with once he's in custody -- and the lieutenant knows it. He gives you a little nod to proceed.

There is plenty here to work with once he's in custody -- proceed with a sure hand now!

"But you did do it."

"I saw it happen and I liked it. That's all I have to say. I didn't live and fight for forty years to end up as a collaborationist. I've heard it on Channel 8, 40AM, Radio Revachol Late Night..."

"We have ways to make you talk -- in that Moralintern cell."

"I didn't live and fight for forty years to end up as a collaborationist. I've heard it -- on Channel 8, 40AM and Radio Revachol Late Night..."

"Okay then. That's that." (Point to your head.) "But I know."