Lors left the wardroom and walked along the hollow, brightly lighted
corridors toward the hospital where Detective Nolan Brice was being kept
a prisoner. He would be the tough one of the two, because his mental
roots were still very close to the witchcraft believing parents who had
given him birth.
Brice was a Pennsylvanian; he was fairly intelligent, but like all
Pennsylvanians he had an unconscious closeness with tradition. He was of
the type who would stoutly deny he was superstitious, yet would refuse
to walk under a ladder. How would he react to Lors' proposal? Would he,
with typical Dutch stubbornness, tell him to go to hell, or would he
co-operate? It was a difficult thing to predict.
Lors shoved the door to the hospital open and grinned at the spacer
behind the desk. "You've a Terran here?" He asked.
The spacer nodded and laid down the sheets of paper he had been ruffling
as Lors came in. "Yes sir, we have one. He's in the care of Doctor
Zuloe."
"What are they doing to him?"
"I'm not sure, sir. I understand he was in a great state of shock when
he arrived. I would imagine they're giving him rehabilitative
treatment."
Lors grinned again. Apparently the method by which they had snatched the
detective had completely unnerved him. "I'd like to see him," he told
the spacer. "Where can I find Doctor Zuloe?"
"I'm sorry, sir. Only authorized personnel will be allowed to
interrogate him."
"I'm authorized, I believe. I captured him. I'm Lors."
The young spacer flushed. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know who you were."
He pointed to the door behind him. "You may go through there. Straight
down the corridor until you reach the fourth ward."
"Doctor Zuloe will be there?"
"I think so."
"Thank you."
Lors shoved the door open and walked down the long hall toward the
fourth ward, not quite sure in his mind how he could spring the Terran
from the hospital and get him down to where the scout ships were
hangared. But it had to be done. If he failed, and they all ended up
dead, or thrown into the penal colonies on Thista, the trade program
with Terra would be set back at least fifty years. All the ground they
had gained, all the knowledge and plans they had formulated, would be
useless. They would have to start from scratch.
The wrecked scout ship could be covered up, but the loss of Detective
Lieutenant Brice and Nicholas Danson would not go unnoticed, especially
when Beth Danson spilled her story about the strange events that had
gone on at the cabin. Of course, Terra would never be able to
corroborate what she had experienced - yet they were on the verge of
space travel, and they were a war-like race. They could cause all sorts
of unnecessary trouble in space.
It had to work. He had to get both of them back to the planet, even if
it meant stopping a slug from an auto-rifle to do it.
He reached the door to the fourth ward and went in to look for Doctor
Zuloe. The man wasn't hard to find; he was the only person in the small
anteroom.
"What can I do for you, Firstspacer?" He asked. "I'm Doctor Zuloe."
"I'm Lors."
For a moment, they stared at each other. The doctor was a middle-aged
man with a weathered skin stretched over a rather aquiline set of
features. His small, bird-like eyes were piercing in their study of
Lors' face. He smiled thinly and ran a hand through greying hair.
"Lors, huh? You the one who went down there?"
"I was in the accident. In a sense, I suppose I'm to blame for having
brought Brice up here."
"You know him?" Doctor Zuloe's eyes narrowed visibly.
"Yes. At least, I think I know him better than you people do."
"Then perhaps you can help us with him. When he arrived here, he was in
a state of acute shock in which he was almost violent. He kept screaming
about witchcraft and all sorts of Terran nonsense. We gave him as much
treatment as we could, under the circumstances, and he stopped acting
like a wildman."
"How is he now?"
"Numb. He's sitting on his bed, in a special room, and staring at the
wall."
"He isn't out of his mind, is he?"
"I don't think so, but he has had a tremendous strain and shock. It'll
take awhile. He isn't of the same structure as the other one."
Lors sighed wearily. "I'll see what I can do with him. Commander Zark
has plans for him."
"Another switch?" The doctor made no attempt to cover his disgust over
the idea.
"An accident, I believe."
"From bad to worse, huh?"
Lors didn't answer him. He merely made a motion with his hand for the
doctor to show him where the Terran was being kept. Doctor Zuloe nodded
and pointed toward a door at the far end of the ward. A blue uniformed
spacer stood guard before the door. He clicked his heels as Lors
approached.
"I want to see the Terran, spacer," Lors said briskly.
The spacer nodded and opened the door. Lors stepped inside and listened
to the lock click into place behind him.
Nolan Brice was seated on the edge of the bed staring at the wall, but
Lors did not believe that he was in a state of shock. He had the knotted
jaws of a man who is firmly determined to betray nothing to his captors.
He sat there with his fingers laced together, hanging between his knees,
his clothing rumpled and hanging loose from his broad frame.
"Nolan?"
Brice swung his eyes to the Firstspacer, the muscles of his jaws
working. "I'll kill you," he said, with a horrible softness in his
voice.
"Nolan. Listen, I'm here to help you."
"You've done a lot of helping, spaceman. I know what you want. Earth."
"Don't be silly. I want to help you and Danson to get back home..."
"I don't need you!"
"Shut up and listen. I'm risking my neck coming in here to help you, so
you damned well better follow orders. In a minute I'm going to call that
guard in here, and we're going to borrow his uniform. Then we'll head
for a scout ship and get you to hell back to Terra. Will that suit
you?"
"This is some kind of trick..."
"Do you want to go, or stay here," Lors demanded coldly. "I don't have
time to lecture you. I'll leave that up to your friend, Danson."
"Play it your way, spaceman," Brice said tightly.
"Okay." Lors stood up and spoke through the door to the guard, pulling
his auto-pistol from the holster. "Come in here, spacer!"