“Hold the elevator!”
The bellman caught the door with his hand in response to the call, and a broad-shouldered, chisel-featured young man in a black uniform burst into the car.
“Sorry for the inconvenience,” he announced in an offhand tone that didn’t sound apologetic at all, “but I have to commandeer the elevator for a moment.”
As he spoke, he used a key to override the control panel and punched a button. The door closed, and the car began to move-downward instead of up.
Shuman suppressed a quick feeling of irritation, fearing that to protest would be out of character.
“Is something wrong?” he said instead.
“No. Everything’s under control,” the man assured him, sparing him only the briefest of glances before returning his gaze to the floor indicator.
“I didn’t know this place had a basement,” his wife said, tightening her grip on Henry’s arm slightly. “Aren’t we on a space station?”
Realizing she was making small talk to cover her nervousness, Henry nonetheless played along.
“I imagine it’s some kind of storage area,” he said. “All the rooms are …”
He broke off as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Framed in the doorway was another black-garbed figure, an older man with a bald head and a theatric handlebar moustache.
“Got two more for you, Sergeant,” their fellow passenger announced, nodding at the bellman, who unceremoniously tossed their bag out of the elevator.
“Very good, sahr!” the bald man said, barely sparing the couple a glance as he consulted the clipboard he was holding. “Let’s see, you would be Henry and Louise Shuman … or should I call you Mr. and Mrs. Welling?”