"Yes." His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.
"You want to escape--even now?"
"Yes."
"You may die if you don't give yourself up."
"No, no."
He tried to stumble toward the exit.
"All right then. Not that way. Here, this way."
Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlight
flicked on.
Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. A
door closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from his
vision--if he still had vision.
"You're sure?" the voice persisted.
"I'm sure," Ben managed to say.
"I have no antidote. You may die."
His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,
massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocain
within half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread to
heart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effective
weapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrender
at once.
"Anti ... anti ..." The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forced
from his throat. "No ... I'm sure ... sure."
He didn't hear the answer or anything else.
* * * * *
Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return to
consciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of black
nothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.
He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,
hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation and
sensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed to
transfer itself to his own body.
For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt welded
shut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave way
to a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hovered
constantly above him--a face, he supposed.
He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound was
a deep, staccato grunting.
But he heard someone say, "Don't try to talk." It was the same gentle
voice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. "Don't talk. Just lie still and
rest. Everything'll be all right."
_Everything all right_, he thought dimly.
There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. There
were periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware of
things. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygen
mask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blankets
swathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth and
he would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.
Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuring
mist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:
"Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food." Or, "Close your
eyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better."
_Better_, he'd think. _Getting better...._
At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. The
mist brightened, then dissolved.
He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorless
walls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of his
aluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket.
Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side.
"You are better?" the kind voice asked.
* * * * *
The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-five
and thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-looking
pallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at the
same time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Her
straight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, and
drawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck.
"I--I am better," he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. "I
am going to live?"
"You will live."