O'Leary took stock. Somehow, somewhere, the girl had got a length of
metal pipe--from the plumbing, maybe. She was holding it in one hand,
supporting him with the other. There were two other guards in the cell,
both out cold--one from O'Leary's squad, the other, O'Leary guessed, a
desk guard who had been on duty when the trouble started.
"I wouldn't let them in," she said wildly. "I told them they'd have to
kill me before they could touch that guard."
O'Leary said suspiciously: "You belonged to that Double-A-C, didn't
you? You were pretty anxious to get in the Greensleeves, disobeying
Auntie Mathias's orders. Are you sure you didn't know this was going
to--"
It was too much. She dropped the pipe, buried her head in her hands. He
couldn't tell if she laughed or wept, but he could tell that it hadn't
been like that at all.
"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly, and touched her helplessly on the
shoulder.
* * * * *
He turned and looked out the little barred window, because he couldn't
think of any additional way to apologize. He heard the wavering beat
in the air and saw them--bobbing a hundred yards up, their wide
metal vanes fluttering and hissing from the jets at the tips. The GI
'copters. Waiting--as everyone seemed to be waiting.