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entitled
Pied Piper of Hament
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    All of this speech, designed to be deliberately offensive, was spoken rapidly without pause in a deep, cultured, American voice.
    Prisoner B, disconcerted, hesitated.
    “I have to explain, sir, that I was born in London, in the borough of Ealing, and I have always considered myself an Englishman, even to the extent of—”
    “I will remind you that I asked you why you wrote this pernicious novel.”
    “Sir, I was under the impression I was English and so I wrote this novel in a comical satiric style, hoping to amuse people.”
    “And what sort of people did you hope it would amuse?”
    “Ordinary literate people, I suppose.”
    “You suppose?” A frown creased the broad brow of Abraham Ramson. “You mean Muslims, naturally?”
    “No, sir, the British reading public in general.”
    “You are contradicting me?” Abraham Ramson gestured with his right hand. A man working beyond Prisoner B’s limited line of sight threw a small lever. The electric shock burned between Prisoner B’s temples, a flash of lightning, of unbearable pain. Then it was gone, leaving the prisoner fearing that some part of his brain had been burned out. He was immediately craven.
    “Oh, sir, no more of that, I beg. I do not intend to contradict. I admit I did it. I didn’t realize it. I have every respect…I’m confused. I’m starved of sleep. I don’t even know what country I’m in. I wrote my novel in good faith. You see, I admire the comic novels of P. G. Wodehouse, that most—”
    “You are in Uzbekistan, prisoner, for special interrogation. Now, question number two: Why was your novel translated into a foreign tongue and published in Tehran, an indication of its subversive pro-Islamic nature?”
    “Uzbekistan, sir? I don’t understand. I—”
    The hand gesture again. Again the searing pain, more intense this time, as the world filled with an agonizing blindness.
    “Answer the question. Why was your stinking, corrupt novel published in Tehran?”
    “Sir, I had no control over where my novel was published. It was also published in the United States of America, and—”
    Again the hand gesture. Again the shock. Again he heard his own screams.
    “Why in Tehran, prisoner?”
    “No more shocks, no more, I beg you. I am trying—trying to answer…Really…I can’t…I was told that my novel was published by a small dissenting company in Tehran, to prove that writings by a Muslim could be published in a Western country.”
    “You are saying you are or are not a Muslim?”
    “Well, sir, please, sir—” He heard his own voice blubbering like a schoolchild. “My name is Paul Fadhil Abbas Ali, but I am not a believer.”
    “You lie, you scumbag! Tell me what fine line divides a Muslim from a pro-Muslim? Are you not pro-Muslim?”
    “Well, yes. No. No, in many cases not, but of course—”
    Again the hand gesture. Again the blaze at the temples. Again the screams. The tongue burning in the mouth.
    Ramson was saying in a casual manner that the prisoner had planned to kill the British prime minister.
    “I could never bring myself to kill another person…”
    Abraham Ramson ignored the remark. Spreading open the prisoner’s novel on the table, he flattened its pages with a meaty hand.
    Ramson’s eyebrows came together as he spoke. “I shall read a passage on page fifty-three of your poisonous creation. ‘They were laughing together as they walked through the park, where no one could overhear their jokes. Harry said, “What we need to do is blow up the prime minister. That would solve our problems.” “I can see it now,” Celina said, laughing. “Bits of him spread all over Downing Street.” ’
    “Is that or is that not an incitement to murder?”
    The prisoner was aghast. “How can you take it seriously? They’re pretty drunk, these characters, Lina and the others. They’re fooling around. Many of my friends just found that passage funny.”
    “Funny?” The question exploded