I hesitated, not yet having been instructed. Then I found myself chucking my bag in and climbing inside. “New Orleans,” I said, “with stop at Memphis.” The driver shrugged and signaled the control tower. The other passenger snorted and paid me no further attention.
Once in the air he opened his briefcase and spread papers across his knees. I watched him with disinterest. Presently I found myself shifting my position to let me get at my gun easily. The elderly man shot out a hand and grabbed my wrist. “Not so fast, son,” he said, and his features broke into the Satanic grin of the Old Man himself.
My reflexes are fast, but I was at the disadvantage of having everything routed from me to my master, passed on by it, and action routed back to me. How much delay is that? A millisecond? I don’t know. As I was drawing, I felt the bell of a gun against my ribs. “Take it easy.”
With his other hand he thrust something against my side; I felt a prick, and then through me spread the warm tingle of a jolt of “morpheus” taking hold. I’ve been knocked out by that drug twice before and I’ve given it more times than that; I knew what it was.
I made one more attempt to pull my gun free and sank forward.
I was vaguely aware of voices—voices which had been going on for some time before I got around to sorting them out as meaning. Someone was handling me roughly and someone was saying, “Watch out for that ape!” Another voice replied, “It’s all right; his tendons are cut,” to which the first voice retorted, “He’s still got teeth, hasn’t he?”
Yes, I thought fretfully, and if you get close enough I’ll bite you with them, too. The remark about cut tendons seemed to be true; none of my limbs would move, but that did not worry me as much as being called an ape and not being able to resent it. It was a shame, I thought, to call a man names when he can’t protect himself.
I wept a little and then fell into a stupor.
“Feeling better, son?”
The Old Man was leaning over the end of my bed, staring at me thoughtfully. His chest was bare and covered with grizzled hair; he showed a slight paunch.
“Unh,” I said, “pretty good, I guess.” I started to sit up and found I could not move.
The Old Man came around to the side of the bed. “We can take those restraints off now,” he said, fiddling with clasps. “Didn’t want you hurting yourself. There!”
I sat up, rubbing myself. I was quite stiff. “Now,” said the Old Man, “how much do you remember? Report.”
“Remember?”
“You were with them—remember? They caught you. Do you remember anything after the parasite got to you?”
I felt a sudden wild fear and clutched at the sides of the bed. “Boss! Boss—they know where this place is! I told them.”
“No, they don’t,” he answered quietly, “because these aren’t the Section offices you remember. Once I was convinced that you had made a clean getaway, I had the old offices evacuated. They don’t know about this hang-out—I think. So you remember?”
“Of course I remember. I got out of here—I mean out of the old offices and went up—” My thoughts raced ahead of my words; I had a sudden full image of holding a live, moist master in my bare hand, ready to place it on the back of the rental agent.
I threw up on the sheet. The Old Man took a corner of it, wiped my mouth, and said gently, “Go ahead.”
I swallowed and said, “Boss—they’re all over the place! They’ve got the city.”
“I know. Same as Des Moines. And Minneapolis, and St. Paul, and New Orleans, and Kansas City. Maybe more. I don’t know—I can’t be every place.” He looked sour and added, “It’s like fighting with your feet in a sack. We’re losing, fast.” He scowled and added, “We can’t even clamp down on the cities we know about. It’s very—”
“Good grief! Why not?”
“You should know. Because ‘older and wiser heads’ than mine are still to be convinced that there is a war on. Because when they take over a city, everything goes on as before.”