They twitch and groan, but don’t get up.

  Just as I thought. This is the tactic that retired my predecessor. They figure anyone will break if they go on a lie-down strike, refusing to work no matter how much they get boxed. And if they miss more than half a day there will be an investigation and bad publicity.

  They propose to bargain with the god of the box.

  They are fools, of course. I do not call them again, I do not warn them. I merely turn the dial to one hundred, depress all twenty buttons, and lock them in with the intercom disconnected. I amble down the corridor to the N.C.O.’s mess and enjoy a leisurely breakfast-coffee, eggs, bacon, one griddlecake with maple syrup, a section of fresh cantaloupe, orange juice. I’ll say this for the stockade: it has excellent hydroponic facilities and a fine stable. I could not eat better on Earth.

  Gloria, the civilian waitress, serves me with a smile. I chat with her and pat her shapely behind. She doesn’t know my line of work, only that I’m one of the staff. Nice girl; I really enjoy seeing her.

  Sated, I amble back to the barracks. The Post Commander has granted my platoon the morning off in gratitude for the men’s courage in volunteering for radioactive duty. I have neglected to tell them this.

  One hour has passed—the maximum any prisoner may be boxed at one hundred without specific dispensation. I drop the dial to zero and unlock. It takes a moment to clarify the situation.

  Numbers 2 and 15 are in coma. Numbers 4, 9, 10, and 19 are delirious. The rest are severely shaken but will be fit to work in a few hours. I notify sick bay to fetch the two, lock the four in, and conduct the rest to boot mess for a late repast. They fall into formation without protest.

  I anticipate no further trouble with them.

  It has taken too much time, of course, but now I am a commissioned officer. I am in charge of a dozen barracks, and there is very little disturbance in my wing. The boots fear me and do not attempt to stand on their “rights.”

  But I am aware that with this slow progress I will never achieve the full success I crave unless I can jump several ranks. So it behooves me to volunteer for a high-risk, high-reward mission.

  Gloria, my fiancee, tries to talk me out of it. She is afraid I will fail or get killed. She doesn’t understand that life itself is a failure if no chances are ever taken. I must take a risk commensurate with my aspiration.

  At the top of the Special Assignment roster is a planet called Waterloo: the human discoverer’s half-punning rendition of the unpronounceable native designation. Waterloo is where the Earth-sphere economic advance is stalled. I know it’s gauche to speak of trails through space, as though a three-dimensional volume sparsely pocked with glowing gasballs called stars and bits of debris called planets can be seriously equated with an extinct Earthside wilderness, but that’s what it really amounts to. It is feasible for man to expand his sphere in this direction—the sphere isn’t sphere-shaped, naturally—using Waterloo as a kind of trading post and transfer point. It is not feasible to bypass this particular planet. That is all, I am told, that I need to know. So I think of it as a station on a trail, and the Loos of Waterloo have set up a barricade that has to come down so the posse can get through. The assignment: bring down that barricade.

  It would be easier to understand the situation if the Loos were violent, asocial monsters. But they are humanoid, at least in outline, and civilized too, though without space technology. There is evidence that they had it once, but gave it up, oddly. They are rather polite and gentle with never a harsh word, and they have hardly begun to exploit their system’s natural resources. They have a lot to benefit from Earth contact and seem willing enough. All that is necessary is for an envoy to connect with their leader or governing council and arrange for an Earth/Waterloo treaty that establishes an industrial enclave and permits free passage of commercial vessels. Ours, of course.

  The kicker is that six envoys have tried it in turn. Five never came back. The sixth escaped to display the marks of his reception. He had been brutally tortured.

  So there is the riddle of Waterloo. A pleasant, peaceful culture that tortures visitors. Force is out of the question, whatever the provocation. Earth could not possibly transport and land enough troops to pacify the entire planet since the men could not forage from the land. Diplomacy has to do the job if it is to be done at all. And it must be done, lest other spacefaring species assume control of the region and threaten Man’s security.

  Gloria pleads and cries and threatens and cajoles, but I volunteer. I am confident that I, as a superior individual, will succeed once more where my incompetent predecessors have failed.

  I am landing now at the only suitable place on the planet. This is where a super-hard lava flow exists that can withstand the blast of chemical rockets. The ancient Loo spaceports are in shambles, quite useless today, so this natural formation has to substitute.

  According to envoy #6 (intriguing coincidence of nomenclature, that! My Latin loudmouth finally finagled a reprieve)—the Loos never kill an animate creature if they can help it. Their atrocities are calculated to induce maximum pain with minimum loss of body faculty. But their science in this respect remains crude. They do not have the discipline box.

  The first two envoys (#6 claims) died because the Loos were not sufficiently conversant with human anatomy and function to preserve them through the scheduled rigors. The next three committed suicide. The sixth made his break instead. He was a specially trained agent who was able to pull off his phenomenal escape without the use of one hand. Now he has quit the Service.

  I have no such spy training. And I mean to see my mission through to the end, for marriage and considerable acclaim and fortune await me. So I will neither run nor commit suicide. The Loos will have to kill me outright—or negotiate.

  Here are the Loos, coming across the plain of lava in an animal cart. They are actually rather small, only four and a half feet tall and proportionately slender. Hardly the type one would expect to find in the torture business. The gravity of this world is less than Earth-norm, but the difference isn’t enough to account for such diminished stature, if that’s the way it works. I don’t really know or care much about exobiology. I do know their internal systems are different; they look like human mock-ups, but there are myriad distinctions. The Loos are probably the right size for what they are, though that isn’t much.

  “Welcome to Waterloo,” their spokesman says, using their own word for the planet but speaking English otherwise. They have evidently learned something about us and made an effort to accommodate. That should help. Maybe the earlier difficulties were the result of some linguistic confusion.

  Maybe cheese is made from green moons, too. By what innocent misapprehension would they torture six envoys?

  “I have come to make a treaty,” I inform the Loo. “Between your world and mine. Mutually beneficial. You understand?”

  “Yes, Envoy,” he replies. I know he is male because he has a penis. Primitives don’t wear much.

  He conducts me to his castle, making small talk. If he is trying to impress me with his verbal facility, he is succeeding. I doubt I could handle the Loo gabble that well, should I be moved to try. His name is something like Kule, he is to be my host for the duration, and he seems friendly enough. Innocuous, in fact. Naturally he is hiding something.

  The air is balmy. I am able to breath comfortably and to drink the local water, but that’s as far as it goes.

  Inside, Kule introduces me to his mate, Vibe. She is a thick individual with four teats down the front and a jelly-pudendum, and she speaks limited English. Her litter of four stands behind her: vaguely akin to bald-headed human brats.

  “Do they speak my language too?” I inquire.

  “To some extent,” Kule admits. “All those who expect to deal with aliens must study the tongues. But beyond this domicile there are few you could converse with.”

  We share a royal dinner. I cannot touch the Waterloo food, of course. Its chemistry differs right down to the cellular structure. A distinct and alien life-pattern. Assimilation of any of it would havoc my innards. The air and water are essentially inorganic, so I can use them, but the food—a biological antimatter, I suppose. But they have imported some Earth staples at fabulous expense (or stolen them from the prior envoys) and prepared them for me. A fattening for the kill?

  “You come politically, as did the other Earthmen?” the Loo inquires as we dine. “To deal as between sovereign planets?”

  “Yes,” I agree. He already knows this. Perhaps he is letting his family in on the secret now.

  “You have courage.”

  I suppose that is a way of looking at it. I find it hard to be afraid of inferiors. “I understand that you torture envoys.”

  “Certainly. We regret that your predecessors . . . desisted prematurely. But we are now sufficiently familiar with human anatomy so that we are virtually assured you will not perish on the rack.” He took another mouthful of pudding, looking pleased.

  I mouth my own dessert. “Unless I commit suicide.”

  Vibe turns green around all four nipples and the litter titters. I see immediately that I have committed a faux pas.

  “Your species is prone to jest?” Kule asks uncertainly.

  “Very prone.” The bad moment passes. Should I regret that I have caused this nice, homey, bloodthirsty family embarrassment? Yet if torture is one of their amenities. . . .

  The meal is finished. “Shall I conduct you to the business office now?” Kule asks, “or would you prefer to rest a little first?”

  “Business before pleasure,” I reply. I doubt he has either intent or authority to sign a treaty between two worlds, however. Perhaps I am to meet someone more important.

  Kule obligingly guides me to a lower chamber of the castle. It is large and set up like a theater. Tiers of benches rise above an ample stage. I do not need the sight of several Loos suspended on boards to acquaint me with the fact that this is indeed a torture chamber.

  It occurs to me to inquire why they feel the need to inflict pain on natives and aliens alike, but I realize that sadism requires no objective justification. Perhaps Kule expects me to break and run for my ship; this is his way of scaring me away from my mission.

  No doubt he has never dealt with a superior man. I shall neither be bluffed nor commit a faux pas again.

  Kule introduces me to my personal torturer, a legless one-eyed Loo. He cannot move; he is mounted to a pedestal before a vacant rack. I see that each client has a similarly incapacitated attendant. None of that modem mass-production indifference here!

  “This is Beve, our specialist in human anatomy,” Kule says with pride. “You can be assured that he is fully accredited. Under his direction you will suffer the most exquisite agony your system is capable of. He handled the three successful cases.”

  “Successful?”

  “Those who took the grail.” Kule gestures to a handsome goblet affixed to one edge of the vertical board. I perceive that it is filled with an amber fluid. A suicide cup?

  It would not work for me, because of the differing metabolism, and would not have worked for the prior envoys. He is lying. No—it would work, but not quite in the manner intended. Not the poison, but the alien chemistry would do the human drinker in. Academic distinction.

  “Who handled the unsuccessful cases?” I inquire politely.

  “We do not speak the names of failures,” Kule reproves me gently. “Incompetent practitioners are incarcerated along with their mistakes in the oubliette. If extenuating circumstances exist, they are granted a sip from the grail first.” His demeanor is grave; he does not enjoy the subject. I understand. No one likes to admit proximity to incompetence.

  But it is an intriguing point, this concern about accidental death on the rack. If the client is driven to suicide, it is the tormenter’s bonus, I gather. If the client dies adamant, he guarantees his torturer’s demise. Very nice. But what of those who survive bloody but unbowed?

  “You understand,” Kule says, hesitating delicately, “suppressors or tranquilizers of any type are—”

  “—are frowned upon,” I finish for him. “Lest they diminish the pain.” And I was sure they would know if I used any such, so I have no intention of cheating.

  “I can stay only for the initiation,” Kule says. “But you will be attended throughout by licensed witnesses. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask Beve. He can hear you, and he comprehends. If he nods toward pain, the answer is affirmative.” He retreats to one of the seats in the gallery and sets himself up expectantly.

  Rule’s actions and comments smack of verisimilitude: a rehearsed sequence to convince me that I am really to be tortured. Nevertheless, it is impressive.

  Beve smiles, revealing his toothless and tongueless cavity, and I comprehend a trifle more. He had been tortured himself! He knows well the meaning of pain. His head is an earless globe; only poke holes penetrate the skull. Probably all his infirmities stem from similar coercion.

  Beve gestures toward the rack invitingly. I play it straight: I strip down and manage to mount myself for the operation. I fit my arms and legs into the loops provided. The supports are oddly comfortable, being padded and pliable, and they brace my body in such a way that I should be able to remain suspended for a long time without bruise or loss of circulation. Though the chamber is well lighted, no direct beam affronts my eyes, and the ambient temperature is pleasant for my exposed skin. There is even a headband that takes weight off my neck without impairing freedom of motion. The rack seems to be no more than a convenient display table. Were it not for the intermittent groans associated with the adjacent projects, I could almost convince myself that this is merely a fancy sauna.

  “Shall I call it quits when I’m tired?” I inquire facetiously, thinking Beve won’t understand. But he nods his head to one side. Does that signify “yes” or “no” ?

  Foolish notion! What kind of torture would it be if the client could turn it off at will?

  What kind? The usual kind! Torture is generally for an ulterior purpose: to obtain the subject’s acquiescence to the will of the torturer. It ceases when the desired information is divulged, or the desired confession obtained, or the desired attitude embraced. Cooperation terminates it. I have applied the pain-box therapy in such manner many times.

  On the other hand, torture as punishment desists only at the discretion of the torturer. This I employed when my barracks at the stockade defied me by a liedown strike. If I am to be subjected to that kind, no easy death by suicide should be permitted.

  All of which leaves the status of Waterloo duress in question. No single explanation seems wholly reasonable. There is no information I would not freely provide, and I have no relevant confessions to make. My attitude, I should think, is good: I want only to negotiate a mutually beneficial treaty. I am not a criminal in need of punishment by any standard I know of, and I have not been treated as one here, so far. I merely happen to be an envoy scheduled for torture.

  I can’t claim discrimination. The other clients are natives, and the torturers themselves have been tortured.

  In short, I am baffled. Well, when on Waterloo. . . .

  To one side is a cabinet. Beve opens it and sets up certain instruments. My view is unhampered. I can see every detail as can Kule and the witnesses in the audience. I see the light glint off the fine steel of a set of scalpels.

  Could this be a kind of gladiatorial display? One measures his courage against that of other contestants, for the sadistic delight of the spectators? No—there are too few watchers, and they are as serious as jurymen. They merely wait.

  Beve now reaches up to take my left hand, disengaging the arm from its supports at elbow and wrist. He sets it in a kind of elevated shelf projecting from his console and ties it firmly in place. I am reminded of the time I had to donate blood to the Service bank, back when I was a boot myself. There are even channels for each of my fingers, with straps to hold them in place. This entire unit must have been designed to human specification, from the oversized rack to the customized attachments: a telling compliment.

  Beve lifts a small knife.

  I have held my mind away from this reality, as though it were a bluff or something not connected to me personally. Now I can avoid it no longer: I am about to be cut.

  My hand is palm-up, my fingers splayed. The knife descends on my smallest digit. I expect some delay, some offer to refrain if only I will accede to some particular demand or depart the planet promptly. But there is none. The blade stabs into my fleshy fingertip and slices shallowly down the length of the member, skipping only the portions covered by the straps.

  The scalpel is sharp, and for a moment I am not aware of genuine pain. I watch the skin peel back from the wound like red opening lips. I see the rich blood well up, and I notice the little drain channels in the support shelf for such fluid. This is a sophisticated device, though primitive.

  I am, I realize, in a kind of shock. I cannot believe that I am really thus casually to be tortured, though I am watching it happen.

  Beve lifts a syringe and squirts a colorless jet down the gash. Suddenly there is agony: it is alcohol, or their equivalent!

  “Beve!” I cry, alarmed. “If that’s organic, and it enters my system—”

  He looks up at me and nods to his left, my right. Since it is my left hand that is hurting, he nods away from pain: no. He must have considered this matter and made sure I wouldn’t die ludicrously. Maybe that was what happened to the first of the failures. Trust the torturer to know his business, particularly when the oubliette is gaping.

  The working area is clean now. Something in that fiery liquid has stanched the bleeding. Beve is ready for the next stage. He slices across the finger at right angles to the prior cut and squirts away the new blood while I stiffen. It is as though I am holding my finger in the field of a limited-radius discipline box! Beve completes the incisions under the straps, working skillfully. He takes up a set of tongs and fastens them to—