“Open it.”
She fumbled with the lock, turning the key from her pocket, then he kicked the door farther open, dragging Goldie inside and shutting the door with a slam that echoed. He hunted through the apartment swiftly, then shoved Goldie into the bedroom. He threw her onto the bed and tied her to it, leaving her shaking in a film of sweat.
“Have you a name?”
“G-Goldie Morran . . .”
“What trade are you in?”
Humor him . . . that’s what they always say, humor a madman . . .
“I change currency,” she quavered out. “Up-time money for whatever a tourist needs down a gate . . .”
“Tell me how to operate this device.” He held up the stolen security radio.
“You press the talk button,” she gulped. “Then someone from security answers.”
He pressed the button. The radio sputtered. “Security.”
“I’ve searched Goldie Morran’s rooms. There’s no one here.”
“Roger.”
Even if she’d dared scream for help while the radio was live, he gave her no chance, switching it off immediately and setting it down on her dresser. He considered her coldly where she lay sprawled, bound hand and foot to her own bed. “Where might I find a map of this accursed place?”
Goldie swallowed down a dry throat. “The computer would be best.”
She had to show him how to use it. He tied her to the bed again, afterward, then returned to the living room and spent hours sitting in front of Goldie’s computer. She heard keys clicking, listened numbly through a haze of terror to his soft-voiced verbal commands, not really taking in anything he said. Then the living room fell silent. Goldie strained to hear, trying to catch any hint of movement beyond the open bedroom door. Nothing came to her ears except the hum of the air-conditioning fan.