"You have a great deal to lose," General Smale was saying, "and nothing
to gain by your stubbornness. You're a young man, vigorous and, I'm
sure, intelligent. You have a fortune of some million and a quarter
dollars, which I assure you you'll be permitted to keep. As against
that prospect, so long as you refuse to co-operate, we must regard you
as no better than a traitorous criminal--and deal with you accordingly."
"What have you been feeding me?" I said. "My mouth tastes like
somebody's old gym shoes and my arm's purple to the elbow. Don't you
know it's illegal to administer drugs without a license?"
"The nation's security is at stake," snapped Smale.
"The funny thing is, it must not have worked, or you wouldn't be
begging me to tell all. I thought that scopolamine or whatever you're
using was the real goods."
"We've gotten nothing but gibberish," Smale said, "most of it in an
incomprehensible language. Who the devil are you, Legion? Where do you
come from?"
"You know everything," I said. "You told me so yourself. I'm a guy
named Legion, from Mount Sterling, Illinois, population: one thousand
eight hundred and ninety-two."
Smale had gone white. "I'm in a position to inflict agonies on you,
you insolent rotter," he grated. "I've refrained from doing so. I'm a
soldier; I know my duty. I'm prepared to give my life; if need be, my
honor, to obtain for my government the information you're withholding."
"Turn me loose; then ask me in a nice way. As far as I know, I haven't
got anything of military significance to tell you, but if I were
treated as a free citizen I might be inclined to let you be the judge
of that."
"Tell us now; then you'll go free."
"Sure," I said. "I invented a combination rocket ship and time machine.
I travelled around the solar system and made a few short trips back
into history. In my spare time I invented other gadgets. I'm planning
to take out patents, so naturally I don't intend to spill any secrets.
Can I go now?"
Smale got to his feet. "Until we can safely move you, you'll remain in
this room. You're on the sixty-third floor of the Yordano Building.
The windows are of unbreakable glass, in case you contemplate a
particularly untidy suicide. Your person has been stripped of all
potentially dangerous items. The door is of heavy construction and
securely locked. The furniture has been removed so you can't dismantle
it for use as a weapon. It's rather a drab room to spend your future
in, but until you decide to co-operate this will be your world."
* * * * *
I didn't say anything. I sat on the floor and watched him leave. I
caught a glimpse of two uniformed men outside the door. No doubt they'd
take turns looking through the peephole. I'd have solitude without
privacy.
I stretched out on the floor, which was padded with a nice thick rug,
presumably so that I wouldn't beat my brains out against it just to
spite them. I was way behind on my sleep: being interrogated while
unconscious wasn't a very restful procedure. I wasn't too worried. In
spite of what Smale said, they couldn't keep me here forever. Maybe
Margareta had gotten clear and told the story to some newsmen; this
kind of thing couldn't stay hidden forever. Or could it?
I thought about what Smale had said about my talking gibberish under
the narcotics. That was an odd one....
Quite suddenly I got it. By means of the drugs they must have tapped a
level where the Vallonian background briefing was stored: they'd been
firing questions at a set of memories that didn't speak English. I
grinned, then laughed out loud. Luck was still in the saddle with me.
* * * * *
The glass was in double panels, set in aluminum frames and sealed
with a plastic strip. The space between the two panels of glass was
evacuated of air, creating an insulating barrier against the heat of
the sun. I ran a finger over the aluminum. It was dural: good tough
stuff. If I had something to pry with, I might possibly lever the metal
away from the glass far enough to take a crack at the edge, the weak
point of armor-glass ... if I had something to hit it with.
Smale had done a good job of stripping the room--and me. I had my shirt
and pants and shoes, but no tie or belt. I still had my wallet--empty,
a pack of cigarettes with two wilted weeds in it, and a box of matches.
Smale had missed a bet: I might set fire to my hair and burn to the
ground. I might also stuff a sock down my throat and strangle, or hang
myself with a shoe lace--but I wasn't going to.
I looked at the window some more. The door was too tough to tackle,
and the heavies outside were probably hoping for an excuse to work me
over. They wouldn't expect me to go after the glass; after all, I was
still sixty-three stories up. What would I do if I did make it to the
window sill? But we could worry about that later, after I had smelled
the fresh air.
My forefinger found an irregularity in the smooth metal: a short
groove. I looked closer, saw a screw-head set flush with the aluminum
surface. Maybe if the frame was bolted together--
No such luck; the screw I had found was the only one. What was it for?
Maybe if I removed it I'd find out. But I'd wait until dark to try it.
Smale hadn't left a light fixture in the room. After sundown I'd be
able to work unobserved.
* * * * *
A couple of hours went by and no one came to disturb my solitude, not
even to feed me. I had a short scrap of metal I'd worked loose from my
wallet. It was mild steel, flimsy stuff, only about an inch long, but I
was hoping the screw might not be set too tight. Aluminum threads strip
pretty easily, so it probably wasn't cinched up too hard.
There was no point in theorizing. It was dark now; I'd give it a
try. I went to the window, fitted the edge of metal into the slotted
screw-head, and twisted. It turned, just like that. I backed it off
ten turns, twenty; it was a thick bolt with fine threads. It came free
and air whooshed into the hole. The screw apparently sealed the panel
after the air was evacuated.
I thought it over. If I could fill the space between the panels with
water and let it freeze ... quite a trick in the tropics. I might as
well plan to fill it with gin and set it on fire.
I was going in circles. Every idea I got started with "if". I needed
something I could manage with the materials at hand: cloth, a box of
matches, a few bits of paper.
I got out a cigarette, lit up, and while the match was burning examined
the hole from which I'd removed the plug. It was about three sixteenths
of an inch in diameter and an inch deep, and there was a hole near the
bottom communicating with the air space between the glass panels. It
was an old-fashioned method of manufacture but it seemed to have worked
all right: the air was pumped out and the hole sealed with the screw.
It had at any rate the advantage of being easy to service if the panel
leaked. Now with some way of pumping air _in_, I could blow out
the panels....
There was no pump on the premises but I did have some chemicals: the
match heads. They were old style too, like a lot of things in Peru:
the strike-once-and-throw-away kind.
I sat on the floor and started to work, chipping the heads off the
matchsticks, collecting the dry, purplish material on a scrap of
paper. Thirty-eight matches gave me a respectable sample. I packed it
together, rolled it in the paper, and crimped the ends. Then I tucked
the makeshift firecracker into the hole the screw had come from.
Using the metal scrap I scraped at the threads of the screw, blurring
them. Then I started it in the hole, half a dozen turns, until it came
up against the match-heads.
The shoes Margareta had bought me had built-up leather heels: hell on
the feet, but just the thing to pound with.
* * * * *
I took the shoe by the toe and hefted it: the flexible sole gave it a
good action, like a well-made sap. There were still a couple of "if's"
in the equation, but a healthy crack on the screw ought to drive it
against the packed match-heads hard enough to detonate them, and the
expanding gasses from the explosion ought to exert enough pressure
against the glass panels to break them. I'd know in a second.
I flattened myself against the wall, brought the shoe up, and laid it
on the screw-head.
There was a deafening boom, a blast of hot air, and a chemical stink,
then a gust of cool night wind--and I was on the sill, my back to the
street six hundred feet below, my fingers groping for a hold on the
ledge above the window. I found a grip, pulled up, reached higher, got
my feet on the muntin strip, paused to rest for three seconds, reached
again....
I pulled my feet above the window level and heard shouts in the room
below:
"--fool killed himself!"
"Get a light in here!"
I clung, breathing deep, and murmured thanks to the architect who had
stressed a strong horizontal element in his facade and arranged the
strip windows in bays set twelve inches from the face of the structure.
Now, if the boys below would keep their eyes on the street underneath
long enough for me to get to the roof--
I looked up, to get an idea how far I'd have to go--and gripped the
ledge convulsively as the whole building leaned out, tilting me back....
Cold sweat ran into my eyes. I squeezed the stone until my knuckles
creaked, and held on. I laid my cheek against the rough plaster,
listened to my heart thump. Adrenalin and high hopes had gotten me
this far ... and now it had all drained out and left me, a frail
ground-loving animal, flattened against the cruel face of a tower like
a fly on a ceiling, with nothing between me and the unyielding concrete
below but the feeble grip of fingers and toes. I started to yell for
help, and the words stuck in my dry throat. I breathed in shallow
gasps, feeling my muscles tightening, until I hung, rigid as a board,
afraid even to roll my eyeballs for fear of dislodging myself. I closed
my eyes, felt my hands going numb, and tried again to yell: only a thin
croak.
A minute earlier I had had only one worry: that they'd look up and see
me. Now my worst fear was that they wouldn't.
This was the end. I'd been close before, but not like this. My fingers
could take the strain for maybe another minute, maybe even two; then
I'd let go, and the wind would whip at me for a few timeless seconds,
before I hit.
* * * * *
Down inside of me a small defiance flickered, found a foot-hold, burned
brighter. I would die ... but Hell, that would solve a lot of problems.
And if I had to die, at least I could die trying.
My mind moved in to take over from my body. It was the body that was
wasting my last strength on a precarious illusion of safety, numbing my
senses, paralyzing me. It was a tyranny I wouldn't accept. I needed a
cool head and a steady hand and an unimpaired sense of balance; and if
the imbecile boy wouldn't co-operate the mind would damn well force it.
First: loosen the grip--Yes! if it killed me: bend those fingers!
I was standing a little looser now, my hands resting flat, my legs
taking the load. I had a good wide ledge to stand on: nearly a foot,
and in a minute I was going to reach up and get a new hold and lift one
foot at a time ... and if I slipped, at least I'd have done it my way.
I let go, and the building leaned out, and to hell with it....
I felt for the next ledge, gripped it, pulled up, found a toe-hold.
Sure, I was dead. It was a long way to the top, and there was a fancy
cornice I'd never get over, but when the moment came and I started the
long ride down I'd thumb my nose at the old hag, Instinct, who hadn't
been as tough as she thought she was....
* * * * *
I was under the cornice now, hanging on for a breather and listening to
the hooting and hollering from the window far below. A couple of heads
had popped out and taken a look, but it was dark up where I was and
all the attention was centered down where the crowd had gathered and
lights were playing, looking for the mess. Pretty soon now they'd begin
to get the drift--so I'd better be going.
I looked up at the overhang ... and felt the old urge to clutch and
hang on. So I leaned outward a little further, just to show me who
was boss. It was a long reach, and I'd have to risk it all on one
lunge because, if I missed, there wasn't any net, and my fingers knew
it; I heard my nails rasp on the plaster. I grated my teeth together
and unhooked one hand: it was like a claw carved from wood. I took
a half-breath, bent my knees slightly; they were as responsive as a
couple of bumper-jacks bolted on at the hip. Tough; but it was now or
never....
I let go with both hands and stretched, leaning back....
My wooden hands bumped the edge, scrabbled, hooked on, as my legs
swung free, and I was hanging like an old-time sailor strung up by
the thumbs. A wind off the roof whipped at my face and now I was a
tissue-paper doll, fluttering in the breeze.
* * * * *
I had to pull now, pull hard, heave myself up and over the edge, but I
was tired, too tired, and a dark curtain was falling over me....
Then from the darkness a voice was speaking in a strange language: a
confusion of strange thought symbols, but through them an ever more
insistent call:
_... dilate the secondary vascular complex, shunt full conductivity
to the upsilon neuro-channel. Now, stripping oxygen ions from fatty
cell masses, pour in electro-chemical energy to the sinews...._
With a smooth surge of power I pulled myself up, fell forward, rolled
onto my back, and lay on the flat roof, the beautiful flat roof, still
warm from the day's sun.
I was here, looking at the stars, safe, and later on when I had more
time I'd stop to think about it. But now I had to move, before they'd
had time to organize themselves, cordon off the building, and start a
door-to-door search.
Staggering a bit from the exertion of the long climb I got to my feet,
went to the shed housing the entry to the service stair. A short flight
of steps led down to a storeroom. There were dusty boards, dried-up
paint cans, odd tools. I picked up a five-foot length of two-by-four
and a hammer with one claw missing, and stepped out into the hall. The
street was a long way down and I didn't feel like wasting time with
stairs. I found the elevator, got in and pushed the button for the
foyer.
* * * * *
In a few seconds it stopped and the doors opened. I glanced out,
tightened my grip on the hammer, and stepped out. I could see the
lights in the street out front and in the distance there was the wail
of a siren, but nobody in the lobby looked my way. I headed across
toward the side exit, dumped the board at the door, tucked the hammer
in the waist band of my pants, and stepped out onto the pavement. There
were a lot of people hurrying past but this was Lima: they didn't waste
a glance on a bare-footed carpenter.
I moved off, not hurrying. There was a lot of rough country between
me and Itzenca, the little town near which the life boat was hidden
in a cañon, but I aimed to cover it in a week. Some time between now
and tomorrow I'd have to figure out a way to equip myself with a few
necessities, but I wasn't worried. A man who had successfully taken up
human-fly work in middle life wouldn't have any trouble stealing a pair
of boots.
Foster had shoved off for home three years ago, local time, although to
him, aboard the ship, only a few weeks might have passed. My lifeboat
was a midge compared to the mother ship he rode, but it had plenty of
speed. Once aboard the lugger ... and maybe I could put a little space
between me and the big boys.
I had used the best camouflage I knew of on the boat. The near-savage
native bearers who had done my unloading and carried my Vallonian
treasures across the desert to the nearest railhead were not the
gossipy type. If General Smale's boys had heard about the boat, they
hadn't mentioned it. And if they had: well, I'd solve that one when I
got to it. There were still quite a few 'if's' in the equation, but my
arithmetic was getting better all the time.