'That's the way of our world, I'm afraid,' Hewitt slurred, waving an empty glass around. 'It's the Professor's way, or the highway,' he finished in a crass American accent.
We were sitting in a secluded corner of the lavish lounge bar adjoining the main banqueting suite. Tinkling piano notes rose and fell. For three consecutive nights, I had been subjected to the most heinous sexual assaults, violated in the most unspeakable ways, milked of my seminal fluid like a cow on a factory farm. This evening, for a little while, anyway, I was offered what Hewitt called "compassionate respite".
'But surely you could talk to the Professor,' I appealed. 'Surely you could tell him that I have seen the error of my ways, that I am now fully prepared to comply.'
