There came a time when I decided that I really was awake, because cuffs no longer bothered my wrists and sticky tape was no longer across my eyes. But I didn’t jump up or even open my eyes. I knew that the first few seconds after I opened my eyes might be the best and possibly the only chance I would have to escape.
I twitched muscles without moving. Everything seemed to be under control although I was more than a little sore here and there and several other places. Clothes? Forget them-not only did I have no idea where my clothes might be hut also there is no time to stop to dress when you are running for your life.
Now to plan- There didn’t seem to be anyone in this room; was anyone on this floor? Hold still and listen, If and when I was fairly sure I was alone on this floor, get noiselessly out of bed and up the stairs like a mouse, on past the third floor into the attic, and hide.
Wait for dark. Out an attic gable, down the roof and the back wall and into the woods. If I reached the woods back of the house, they would never catch me . . . but until I did, I would be an easy target.
The chances? One in nine. Perhaps one in seven if I got really cranked up. The weakest spot in a poor plan was the high probability of being spotted before I was clear of the house . . . because, if I was spotted-no, when I was spotted-I would not only have to kill but I would have to be utterly quiet in doing so-
-because the alternative was to wait until they terminated me which would be shortly after “the Major” decided that there was no more to be squeezed out of me. Clumsy as these goons were, they were not so stupid-or the Major was not so stupid-as to let a witness who has been tortured and raped stay alive.
I stretched my ears in all directions and listened.
“Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.” No point in waiting; every moment I delayed brought that much closer the time when someone would be stirring. I opened my eyes.
“Awake, I see. Good.”
“Boss! Where am I?”
“What a time-ridden cliché. Friday, you can do better than that. Back up and try again.”
I looked around me. A bedroom, possibly a hospital room. No windows. No-glare lighting. A characteristic gravelike silence enhanced rather than broken by the softest of ventilation sighing.
I looked back at Boss. He was a welcome sight. Same old unstyiish eye patch-why wouldn’t he take time to have that eye regenerated? His canes were leaning against a table, in reach. He was wearing his usual sloppy raw-silk suit, a cut that looked like badly tailored pajamas. I was awfully glad to see him.
“I still want to know where I am. And how. And why. Somewhere underground, surely-but where?”
“Underground, surely, quite a few meters. ‘Where’ you will be told when you need to know, or at least how to get to and from. That was the shortcoming of our farm-a pleasant place but too many people knew its location. ‘Why’ is obvious. ‘How’ can wait. Report.”
“Boss, you are the most exasperating man I have ever met.”
“Long practice. Report.”
“And your father met your mother at a swing ding. And he didn’t take off his hat.”
“They met at a Baptist Sunday-school picnic and both of them believed in the Tooth Fairy. Report.”
“Dirty ears. Snot. The trip to Eli-Five was without incident. I found Mr. Mortenson and delivered to him the contents of my trick bellybutton. Routine was interrupted by a most unusual factor: The space city was experiencing an epidemic of respiratory disorder, etiology unknown, and I contracted it. Mr. Mortenson was most kind; he kept me at home and his wives nursed me with great skill and tender loving care. Boss, I want them compensated.”
“Noted. Continue.”
“I was out of my silly head most of the time. That is why I ran a week behind schedule. But once I felt like traveling I was able to leave at once as Mr. Mortenson told me that I was already carrying the item he had for you. How, Boss? My navel pouch again?”