Lacey tossed the loop of chain free and collapsed beside the body. His gasping breaths came like sobs. “Get me the knife,” he whispered to his companion.
“But we’re still chained,” Swoboda protested.
“Get me the bloody knife!”
Using the light, the physicist located the weapon. Diffidently, he set it beside Lacey’s hand. The Southerner picked it up. The knife was of the finest craftsmanship. Its blade was 7 mm across the flats. Both the edge and the false edge had the yellow sheen which indicated they had been treated to triple density after grinding.
“Hold your shackle against the bolt and keep the light on the rivet,” Lacey directed. He slipped Horn’s blackjack from his pocket and stood.
Swoboda caught at his lower lip with his teeth. Lacey positioned the manacle as he wanted it. He set the knife edge against the peened end of the rivet, then struck the back of the blade sharply with the sap. The 3-mm rivet sheared.
“Why, that’s incredible!” Swoboda blurted.
“Nothing incredible,” Lacey said sourly. “Just a hell of a thing to do to a good knife.” He pried at the manacle carefully, using the false edge and trying not to cut the physicist’s wrist. There was already bleeding from the damage the shackle had inflicted during the struggle with Horn.
The iron popped apart. “Now you get mine,” Lacey said, handing the tools to Swoboda.
It took repeated blows by the older man before the second rivet parted, but even so it was only the matter of a minute. Lacey struck off their leg irons. He paused, staring into the physicist’s eyes. “Can you get back to your Basement and dog the doors shut?” he asked.
Swoboda thought calmly, then nodded. “Probably. It isn’t necessary to pass through the throne room, and the guards at the entrance door should have changed shift by now. They’re used to me entering and leaving, so that shouldn’t cause any comment unless I chance upon someone who saw my . . . arrest.”
The older man rubbed his forehead. “As for dogging the inside door, the guards will probably believe me if I say it’s necessary for a few days because we’re, oh, raising the humidity briefly to enhance growth.”
Lacey nodded. “I’ll give you half an hour,” he said. “That’s all; and if it’s not enough, that’s too bad. Now get moving.”
“Why?” Swoboda asked unexpectedly.
“Why the hell do you care?” the hunter blazed. He flung the knife away from him. It clanged and sparked on the concrete. “Mostly I do what I’m told. It doesn’t make any difference, you see? I know we’re all going down the tubes, I’m not blind. So it’s easier.” Lacey took a deep breath, fingering his scar. “Only maybe this time it makes a difference. To somebody. Now just get out of here.”
Swoboda touched Lacey’s hand, then squeezed it. As he turned, the hunter called after him, “You’ll have to handle the guards inside yourself, afterwards. But I can’t do it all.”
No one shouted when the physicist slipped out into the tunnels. People Underground minded their own business; and besides, the thin old man was of small interest, even to the whores.
Lacey waited briefly, then strolled out to a bar. It had more pretensions than the blind pigs around it and there was a twenty-four-hour clock on its back wall. Horn had had some money in his pockets. Lacey used part of it to buy a beer. The liquid was thin and bland—and therefore safe from being loaded with knock-out drops.
Lacey smiled as the bartender eyed him. Actually, there was nothing unusual about the Southerner’s appearance compared to that of many others Underground. It was just unusual that someone as battered as Lacey was would have enough money left for a drink.
Lacey nursed the beer for the half hour he had promised Swoboda. He ignored the prostitutes who approached him. If the bartender felt he was not drinking fast enough, he had better sense than to push the matter with the scarred man in red.
When the time came, Lacey up-ended his glass and strode out of the stew. As he neared The Boxcars, the hunter began to jog and then run. His face grew wild and he shoved people out of his way. The guards at the entrance to the brothel braced to stop him. Lacey thrust the remainder of Horn’s money out with both hands. “Bill Allen,” he wheezed. “I gotta talk to Bill!”