* * * * *
"You trying to tell me you're a philanthropist?" I demanded.
"Business is philanthropy, in a way," she answered calmly. "You need
money and I need your services. To that extent, we're doing each other
a favor. I think you'll find that the favor I'm going to do for you
is a pretty considerable one. Would you mind picking up the envelopes
on the table?"
I took the stack and stared at the top envelope. "May 15, 1931," I
read aloud, and looked suspiciously at her. "What's this for?"
"I don't think it's something that can be explained. At least it's
never been possible before and I doubt if it would be now. I'm
assuming you want both cash and bank accounts. Is that right?"
"Well, yes. Only--"
"We'll discuss it later." She looked along a row of shelves against
one wall, searching the labels on the stacks of bundles there. She
drew one out and pushed it toward me. "Please open that and put on the
things you'll find inside."
I tore open the bundle. It contained a very plain business suit, black
shoes, shirt, tie and a hat with a narrow brim.
"Are these supposed to be my burial clothes?"
"I asked you to put them on," she said. "If you want me to make that a
command, I'll do it."
I looked at the gun and I looked at the clothes and then for some
shelter I could change behind. There wasn't any.
She smiled. "You didn't seem concerned about my modesty. I don't see
why your own should bother you. Get dressed!"
I obeyed, my mind anxiously chasing one possibility after another, all
of them ending up with my death. I got into the other things and felt
even more uncomfortable. They were all only an approximate fit: the
shoes a little too tight and pointed, the collar of the shirt too
stiffly starched and too high under my chin, the gray suit too narrow
at the shoulders and the ankles. I wished I had a mirror to see myself
in. I felt like an ultra-conservative Wall Street broker and I was
sure I resembled one.
"All right," she said. "Put the envelopes in your inside pocket.
You'll find instructions on each. Follow them carefully."
"I don't get it!" I protested.
"You will. Now step into the mesh cage. Use the envelopes in the order
they're arranged in."
"But what's this all about?"
"I can tell you just one thing, Mr. Weldon--don't try to escape. It
can't be done. Your other questions will answer themselves if you
follow the instructions on the envelopes."
She had the gun in her hand. I went into the mesh cage, not knowing
what to expect and yet too afraid of her to refuse. I didn't want to
wind up dead of starvation, no matter how much money she might have
given me--but I didn't want to get shot, either.
She closed the mesh gate and pushed the switch as far as it would go.
The motors screamed as they picked up speed; the mesh cage vibrated
more swiftly; I could see her through it as if there were nothing
between us.
And then I couldn't see her at all.