There was no doubt of it. She was the girl in the night club, the
dancing girl with the flowing black hair and the mask-like smile,
who had led him to Conroe and then brought the spotlight to his face
to spring the trap too soon. Frantically Jeff fought to control his
excitement. He knew his face was white and he avoided the doctor's
puzzled glance. But he couldn't control the angry fire burning in
his mind, the little voice screaming out: "_He's here; he's here,
somewhere!_"
But why was she here? The doctor had called her "Blackie." He had
spoken to her with familiarity. Jeff's mind whirled. He had the
strangest feeling that he had missed something somewhere along the
line, that he knew the answer but couldn't quite grasp it. What could
the girl's sudden appearance in the Center involve?
Or had her appearance at the night club been the unusual one?
A buzzer rang and the office door opened to admit a small, weasel-faced
man. The doctor looked up and smiled. "Hello, Jacques. This is Jeff
Meyer, the new recruit. Take him down and get him quartered in, all
right? And you might brief him a little. He's awfully green."
The little man scratched his long nose and regarded Jeff with a nasty
smile. "A new one, huh? Where are you going to line him up?"
"No telling. We'll see where the tests put him, first. Then we'll talk
about jobs."
The smile widened on the little man's face, turning down the end of his
long pointed nose and revealing a dirty yellow row of teeth. His eyes
ran over Jeff from head to toe. "Big one too. But then, they fall just
as hard as the rest. Want me to take him right down?"
Schiml nodded. "Maybe he can still get lunch." His eyes shifted to
Jeff. "This is the Nasty Frenchman," he said, motioning toward the
little man with his thumb. "He's been around for a long time; he can
show you the ropes. And don't let him bother you too much--his sense of
humor, I mean. Like I say, he's been around here a long time. You'll
get quarters and you'll be expected to stay with your group for meals
and everything else. That means no contacts outside the hospital as
long as you're here. You'll get the daily news reports, and there
are magazines and books in the library. If you've got other business
outside, you haven't any business in here. Any time you leave the
Center it's considered an automatic breach of contract."
He paused for a long moment and gave Jeff a strange look, almost a half
smile. "And you'll find that questions aren't appreciated around here,
Jeff. Any kind of questions. The men don't like people too much when
they ask questions."
The Nasty Frenchman shuffled his feet nervously, and Jeff started out
the door. Then the little man turned back to Dr. Schiml. "They brought
Tinker back from the table about ten minutes ago. He's in pretty bad
shape. Maybe you should look at him?"
"This was the big job today, wasn't it?" Schiml's eyes were sharp.
"What did Dr. Bartel say?"
"He said no dice. It was a bust."
"I see. Well, it may be just the diodrax wearing off now, but I'll be
down to see."
The Nasty Frenchman grunted and turned back to Jeff. His face still
wore the nasty little grin. "Let's go, big boy," he said, and started
down the hall.
* * * * *
Jeff watched the corridors as they passed, counting them one by one,
trying desperately to keep himself oriented. He glanced at his watch
and angrily sucked in his breath. Minutes were slipping by, precious
minutes, minutes that could mean success or failure. A thousand
questions crowded his mind, and behind them all was the girl. She was
the key, he was sure of it. She would know where Conroe was, where he
could be found....
They reached an elevator, stepped aboard and shot down at such dizzying
speed that Jeff nearly choked. Then, suddenly, they came to a jolting
stop and stepped into a dingy, gray corridor that was dimly lit by bare
bulbs in the ceiling.
The Nasty Frenchman punched a button in the wall and turned to regard
Jeff. The sneering little smile was still on his lips as the far-off
rumble of a jitney grew to a sharp clatter. A little car dropped down
from its ceiling track. The little man hopped in nimbly and motioned
Jeff in beside him. Then the car took off for the ceiling again,
swinging crazily and speeding down the maze of corridors and curves.
Jeff stirred uneasily, growing more and more confused with every turn.
"Look," he broke out finally, "where's this thing taking us?"
The Nasty Frenchman turned pale eyes toward him. "You worried or
something?"
"Well, it looks like we're headed for the center of the Earth. I'd like
to be able to find my way out sometime--"
"Why?"
The question was so blunt that it left Jeff's jaw sagging for a moment.
"Well, I'm not planning to spend the rest of my life in here."
The Nasty Frenchman guffawed. It was not a pleasant laugh. "Here for a
nice restful vacation, huh? You wise guys are all the same. Go ahead,
dream--I won't bother you."
The little man turned his attention to the controls and the car swung
sharply to the right and headed down another corridor. Jeff scowled as
he watched the lighted corridors flash by. Were they speeding so far,
so deep in the depths of the building? Or was this part of a definite
plan to confuse, to lose recruits in the mammoth place so completely
that they could never find their way out? Jeff shrugged, finally. It
really didn't matter too much. He had one job and only one. He could
worry about escape when it had been accomplished.
"That girl," he said finally. "The doctor called her 'Blackie.' Is she
down here where we're going?"
"How should I know? I don't keep her on a leash." The little man's face
darkened and his eyes turned suspiciously to Jeff.
"I mean, is she one of the group--one of the Mercy Men?"
The Nasty Frenchman threw a switch sharply, swerving the speeding car
through a long, dim passage. He ignored the question, as if he hadn't
heard it. In the dim light his skin was pasty yellow and wrinkled like
a mummy. The cruelty and avarice on his face was frightening.
Jeff watched him for a moment or two, then said, "What brought you
here? To the Mercy Men, I mean?"
The Nasty Frenchman's eyes flashed poisonously, his face a horrid mask.
"Did I ask you your racket before you came in?"
"No."
"Then don't ask me mine. And you won't forget that, if you're smart."
He turned his attention sharply to the controls, ignoring Jeff for
several moments. Finally he said, "You'll share a room and you'll
eat at eight, noon and six. Tests should start tomorrow morning at
eight-thirty. You'll be in your room when the doctors come for you.
You won't have any status here until you're tested. Then you'll sign
a release and wait for a job assignment. You won't have any choice of
work; that's just for the older ones. Some of the work is with central
nervous system, some is with sympathetic; some work concentrates on
spinal cord and peripherals, but most of the interest these days is in
cortical lesions and repair. That pays the best, too--couple hundred
thousand at a crack, with a fairly good risk."
"And what's a fairly good risk in here?"
The grin reappeared on the little man's face again. It was almost
savage in its cruelty. "Ten per cent full recovery is a good risk. That
means complete recovery from the work, no secondary infection, complete
recovery of faculties--in other words complete success in the work.
Then a _fairly_ good risk runs slightly lower--more casualty, maybe
five per cent recovery. And a high-risk job averages two per cent--"
The grin broadened. "You've got a better chance of living sitting under
an atom bomb, my friend. And once you sign a release, relieving the
hospital and the doctors of all responsibility, you're in, and held to
your contract by law. This is no vacation, but if you're lucky enough
to come through--" The little man's eyes were bright with eagerness.
"They pay off--oh, how they pay off. If you're lucky, you'll get a
good starter, maybe a hundred thousand, with good risk." He scratched
his nose and regarded Jeff closely. "Of course, there are incomplete
recoveries, too. They have trouble keeping them out of the news, if
they ever leave. Pretty messy, sometimes, too."
Jeff felt his face paling at the cruel eagerness in the little man's
voice. What could bring a man to a place like this--especially this
kind of a man? Or had he been a different kind of a man before he came
in? How long had he been here, waiting from experiment to experiment,
waiting to live or to die, waiting for the payoff, the Big Cash that
waited at the end of a job? What could such an existence do to a man?
What could there be to drive him on? Jeff shuddered, then gasped as the
car gave a sudden lurch around a corner and settled to the floor.
The Nasty Frenchman hopped out, motioned to Jeff to follow. They
started walking toward the escalator at the end of the passageway. Jeff
searched each doorway they passed, keeping alert for a sign of the
black-haired woman. "Look," he said finally. "This girl--Blackie, I
mean--who is she?"
The Nasty Frenchman stopped in his tracks, glared at Jeff. "What is
she, an old family friend or something? You keep asking about her."
"I know her from somewhere."
"So why bother me with your questions?"
Jeff's face darkened angrily. "I want to see her, all right? Don't get
so jumpy--"
The little man whirled on him like a cat. Jeff's arm was wrenched
behind his back until he felt the tendons rip. With unbelievable
strength the Nasty Frenchman twisted the huge man back against the wall
and glared up at him with blazing eyes. "You're a smart guy, coming
around here, asking questions," he snarled, giving Jeff's arm a vicious
wrench. "You think you can fool me? You ask about this, you ask about
that--why so nosey? Blackie ... me ... everything. What are you doing
here? Going after the Big Cash or asking questions?"
"The Cash!" Jeff gasped. He twisted to wriggle free of the iron-like
grip.
"Then don't ask questions! We don't like nosey people here; we like
people that roll dice square and mind their own business." The little
man gave the arm a final agonizing wrench and released it. He jumped
back, poised, eyes savagely eager.
Every instinct screamed at Jeff to rush him, but he slumped against the
wall. Rubbing his aching arm, he fought for control. He knew a fight
now could ruin things completely. Already he had blundered terribly. He
cursed under his breath. How stupid he'd been not to have realized how
unpopular questions would be to people in a place like this. And surely
the word would get to the girl now that he was asking about her. Unless
he could get to her first--
Still rubbing his elbows painfully, he turned to the Nasty Frenchman.
"Okay, let it go," he growled. "Where do we go from here?"
The room was small and barren. Dingy and gray, it matched Jeff's
spirit perfectly. He entered it with the Nasty Frenchman at his heels
and stared at the two stark hospital beds against the far wall, the
two foot lockers, the two small desk-and-chair combinations. There
was no window in the room. Indeed, there was nothing about the room
or corridor to prove that they were not twenty miles underground.
Certainly the jitney ride had been no reassurance to the contrary.
The dim wall lights glowed on scrubbed, peeling paint, and the floor
was covered with clean but well-worn plastic matting. Against one wall
was a TV set. Between the beds a door led into a compact lavatory and
shower. Glancing in, Jeff saw the lavatory was also connected with the
adjoining room.
"It's no Grand Hotel," the Nasty Frenchman said sourly. "But it's clean
and it's a bed. This corridor quarters your whole unit--the C unit.
Other units are on other floors, up and down."