Mrs. Sagen's mouth managed a fleeting smile; then she disappeared
through a swinging door. Lance sat down in a wrought-iron chair. Finding
it not comfortable, he sprang back to his feet and paced the floor.
There sure was something wrong about the colonel's house. Something very
oddly wrong. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Suddenly, his quickened hearing caught the faint murmur of a human
voice. Was it Carolyn? The talk seemed to be issuing from the
kitchen--where her mother had gone. Lance tiptoed across the room,
pushed the door slightly open.
Mrs. Sagen was on the phone. Her voice was excited; she was obviously
straining to keep it at a low level. "I'm telling you, he's here! Right
in our living room. And he insists I know somebody named Carolyn ...
Yes, that's right. But do hurry ... Please. He's acting much odder than
the others did."
Lance had eavesdropped enough. He turned away, glided rapidly out the
front door and into the night.
Where should he go next? The jeep would serve to hustle him around the
base for a while--but eventually he would be chased down and recaptured.
And as for crashing any of the exit gates and thus attaining to greater
freedom, he knew they would all be barricaded and heavily manned by now.
Lance was still burning over Mrs. Sagen's double-cross. Did he want
coffee? she had asked. _Coffee!_ his mind repeated, disgusted. What he
needed was something stronger. A good stiff drink.
That was it! The Officers Club. Casey would be on duty at this hour.
Lance would ask him to mix him a double for old times' sake. Then, he'd
meekly surrender and quietly go crazy in his cell, until the
headshrinker came and confirmed it for real.
* * * * *
The pilot got back in the jeep and drove on. When he reached the Club,
he wheeled the vehicle around to a rear entrance where bushes made the
grounds shadier. Parking, he got out, strolled into the building as
sneakily as if he'd been an inspector-general paying a surprise call
from out of Space Service Headquarters.
Few officers lounged about. Most were at tables and engrossed in their
own imbibing. Lance strode up to the bar, perched himself on a high
stool. Casey, whose hair was red as a Martian desert, was rinsing
glasses. He stopped at his task and came over, wiping the counter with a
wet towel. "What'll it be, major?"
"One of your Specials, Casey, my friend."
"Beg pardon?"
"You know--one of your Casey Specials. Where you start off with half a
glass of Irish whisky, add a dash or two of absinthe, a drop of--"
"I don't stock no absinthe, major." Casey's freckled face was abruptly
hostile. "You know that. It's against regulations."
Lance fought down a tremor. Everybody was in on it. Everybody. He
compromised for a minute: "Give me a slug of Teacher's on the rocks,
then."
Casey measured out the drink for him.
Lance downed it. His hand gripped the edge of the bar. "Casey, do you
know me?"
He watched Casey study him. The thick reddish eyebrows knit. "It's a
pretty big base, major. Lots of faces. Sometimes, I kind of forget the
names."
Lance's blood pressure gave a spurt. "I'm Major Lance Cooper! Hell,
you've rung up my chits often enough!"