"Martha's staked out a reactor-driven patrol speedboat at a wharf. One
guard aboard. She--watched it in operation and I have some small-boat
time. I really think we can grab it. If we get a good head-start, they
don't have anything based here that'll catch up with it. If we get a
break on the weather, their planes won't be able to pick us up."
Lee Falcaro stood up, dashing tears from her eyes. "Then let's go," she
said evenly.
"How's the C.Q.--that man downstairs, Martha?"
"Still sleepin'. The way's as clear now as it'll ever be."
They closed the door behind them and Charles worked the lock. The Charge
of Quarters looked as though he couldn't be roused by anything less
than an earthquake as they passed--but Martha stumbled on one of the
rotting steps after they were outside the building.
"Patrick and Bridget rot my clumsy feet off!" she whispered. "He's
awake."
"Under the porch," Charles said. They crawled into the dank space
between porch floor and ground. Martha kept up a scarcely-audible
volleyfire of maledictions aimed at herself.
When they stopped abruptly Charles knew it was bad.
Martha held up her hand for silence, and Charles imagined in the dark
that he could see the strained and eerie look of her face. After a pause
she whispered: "He's using the--what do you call it? You talk and
somebody hears you far away? A prowler he says to them. A wild man from
the woods. The bitches bastard must have seen you in your handsome suit
of skin and dirt, Charles. Oh, we're _for_ it! May my toe that stumbled
grow the size of a boulder! May my cursed eyes that didn't see the step
fall out!"
They huddled down in the darkness and Charles took Lee Falcaro's hand
reassuringly. It was cold. A moment later his other hand was taken, with
grim possessiveness, by the child.