Space Station 1
about you. You go all pale when something bad happens to other people.
That's good; I like that. It means you can feel for other people.
You're a gentle sort of guy, but I bet you can take care of yourself
and anyone you care about. I just bet you can."
The waitress flushed a little, as if afraid that she had said too much.
She turned and walked slowly toward the coffee percolator at the far
end of the counter.
He was glad now that he had ordered the coffee. The coffee would help
too. He suddenly felt that he was under observation, that hostile eyes
were watching him. But it was no more than just a feeling; and coffee
and sympathy might drive it away.
_How blindly, stupidly foolish could a guy be?_ Corriston thought. _If
he had any sense at all he wouldn't wait for the coffee. He'd get up
quickly and head for the door at the other end of the cafeteria. He'd
either do that, or swing about abruptly and attempt to catch the silent
watcher by surprise._
Corriston decided to wait for the coffee.
The waitress looked at him strangely when she returned. She set the
coffee down before him and started to turn away, her eyes troubled.
Then, suddenly, she seemed to change her mind. She leaned close to him
and whispered: "You'd better leave by the promenade door. That man over
there has been watching you. I know him very well. He's a Security
Guard."
Corriston nodded and stared at her gratefully for a moment. He was
more relieved than alarmed. It was far better to have a Security Guard
watching him than a killer with a poisoned barb. He wasn't exactly
happy about it, but he was confident he could elude the agent.
The waitress' eyes were suddenly warm and friendly again.
"Space-shock?" she asked.
"So they claim," Corriston said. "I happen to think they're mistaken."
He started sipping the coffee. It was hot but not steaming hot. He
could have tossed it off like a jigger of rye but he had some quick
thinking to do.
"Tell me," he said. "Just where is that guard sitting?"
"At the other end of the counter," the waitress replied, the anxiety
coming back into her eyes. "He's close to the door. You'd have to go
past him. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think you want to get away from him.
So you'd better go the way you came--by the promenade door."
"That's not too good an idea, I'm afraid," Corriston said. "He'd follow
me and get assistance on the promenade. What's beyond the other door?
Where does it lead to?"
"It opens on a corridor," the waitress said quickly. "If you can get
past him you might have a better chance that way. There's nothing but a
corridor with two side doors. One opens on an emergency stairway that
goes down to the Master Sequence Selector compartments."
She seemed to take pride in her knowledge. Due to a space-shocked guy's
difficulties, the Master Sequence Selector had become an important
secret shared between them. Corriston wondered if she knew that the
Selector functioned on thirty-two separate kinds of automatic controls.
If he ever got the chance, he'd come back and tell her exactly how
grateful he was. Right at the moment one consideration alone dominated
his thinking. If he could get past the guard he could hide out in an
intricate maze of machinery. Even if they sent a dozen guards down
to look for him it would take them some time to locate him. He could
hide-out and gain a breathing spell.
The waitress had a very small hand. Abruptly Corriston clasped it and
held it for an instant, his fingers exerting a firm, steady pressure.
"Thanks," he said.
Corriston swung about without glancing toward the end of the counter.
He'd pass the guard quickly enough; there was no sense in alerting
the man in advance. As for recognizing him, that would be no problem
at all. You couldn't mistake a Security Guard no matter what kind of
clothes he wore.
Corriston took his time. He walked slowly, refusing to hurry. A man
under surveillance should never hurry. He should be casual, completely
at his ease, for there is no better way of keeping an observer guessing.
He kept parallel with the long counter, his shoulders swaying a little
with the assurance of a man who knows exactly where he is going.
Presently the entire length of the counter was behind him, and he was
less than a yard from the door.
He hadn't glanced once at the counter. He didn't intend to now. One
quick leap would carry him through the door and beyond it, and to hell
with recognizing the guard. When it was touch and go and odd man out,
you altered your plan as you went along.
He'd seen a girl disappear when everyone said it didn't happen.
Confined to a psycho-ward, he had simply walked out, eluded a killer,
and watched a ship explode on the green hills of Earth. He'd survived
all that, so how could one lone Security Guard stop him now?
He was preparing to leap, when something got in his way--a shadow--a
shadow for an instant between himself and the door, and then a dark
bulk stepping right into the shoes of the shadow and filling it out.
The Security Guard was not at all the kind of person he'd expected
him to be. He was not a big ape, not even a muscular-looking man. He
had simply seemed big for the instant he took to fill the place of
his shadow. He was a man of average height, average build. He blocked
the doorway without bluster, looking very calm and relaxed. Only his
eyes were cold and accusing and dangerously narrowed as he surveyed
Corriston from head to foot.
"I'm afraid you'll have to go back to the ward now," he said. "You
picked a bad time to take a turn about the Station. Ordinarily you'd
be privileged to do so. That's part of the therapy. But you picked a
_very_ bad time."
"I'm beginning to realize that," Corriston said. "I couldn't help it,
though. I had no way of knowing that freighter was out of control. I'm
afraid you've made a mistake, too, though. I'm not going back to the
cell."
Corriston had been watching the man's right arm. Suddenly it went back
and his fist started rising, started coming up fast at an angle that
could have sent it crashing against Corriston's jaw.
Corriston had no intention of letting that happen. He side-stepped
quickly and delivered a smashing blow to the pit of the guard's
stomach. The blow was so solid that it doubled the guard up. His knees
buckled and he started to fold.
Corriston didn't take the folding for granted. A second blow caught the
man squarely on the jaw and a third thudded into his rib section. For
an instant he looked so dazed that Corriston felt sorry for him.
He was still half-doubled up when he sank to the floor and straightened
out. He straightened out on his side first, and then rolled over on his
back and stopped moving. His lips hung slackly, his eyes were wide and
staring.
The look on his face gave Corriston a jolt. It was a very strange
look. The fact that his features had become slack was not startling
in itself, but there was something unnatural, unbelievable, about the
way that muscular relaxation had overspread his entire countenance. His
features were putty-gray and they seemed to have no clearly defined
boundaries.
His nose, eyes, and forehead looked as if the ligaments which held them
together had snapped from overstrain or had been severed by a surgeon's
scalpel ... severed and allowed to go their separate ways without
interference.
In fact, there was no real expression on the man's face at all--no
recognizably human expression--not even the stuporous look of a man
knocked suddenly unconscious.
There was agitation now in the cafeteria, a hum of angry voices, a
rising murmur that was coming dangerously close. Corriston shut his
mind to it. He knelt at the guard's side and swiftly unbuttoned the
unconscious man's heavy service jacket. He felt around under the jacket
until he was satisfied that he could move on through the doorway with
a clear conscience. The guard's heart was beating firmly and steadily.
There was a reassuring warmth under the jacket as well, a complete
absence of clamminess.
Suddenly the guard groaned and started to roll over on his side again.
Corriston didn't wait for him to complete the movement. He arose
quickly and was through the door in four long strides.
He preferred not to run. He was not so much fleeing as seeking a
security he was entitled to, a reasonably safe port in a storm that was
threatening to take away his freedom by blanketing him in a dark cloud
of unjust suspicion and utter tyranny.
The corridor was as deserted as he'd hoped it would be. With no one
to get in his way or sound an alarm, he had no difficulty at all in
locating the emergency passageway which descended in a rail-guarded
spiral to the Master Sequence Selector. He kept his right hand on the
safety rail as he moved downward into the darkness. For the first time
he felt extremely tired.
7
The drone of machinery in a high-vaulted, metal-walled compartment
awakened Corriston. It was for the most part a steady, low, continuous
sound. But occasionally it ceased to be a drone, in a strict sense,
and became high-pitched. It became a shrill, almost intolerable whine,
impinging unpleasantly on his eardrums and preventing him from going to
sleep again.
For interminable minutes he lay stretched out at full length in the
lidded, coffinlike rag bin into which he had crawled, a lethargic
weariness enveloping him like a shroud. Above his head steel-blue
surfaces crisscrossed, vibrating planes of metal and wire intricately
folded back upon themselves.
After a moment, when the steady drone was well in the ascendency again,
he sat up and stared about him. He had a throbbing headache and there
was a dryness in his throat which made swallowing difficult.
He was certainly not an exceptional man in regard to such matters.
During moments of crises he could remain fairly calm and self-possessed
but the aftermath could be killing.
He felt now as if all of his nerves had been squeezed together in a
vise. He looked at his wrist watch and was amazed to discover that he
had slept for eight hours. If a search had been made for him, he had no
reason to complain about his luck. He hadn't even closed the lid of the
bin. But perhaps the oil-stained waste he had drawn over himself had
given them the idea that he was just more waste underneath.
Perhaps the guards didn't give a damn whether they found him or not.
It was quite possible. On a low official level a cynical desire for
self-comfort could dominate the thinking of a man.
It was quite possible that the guards who had been sent down to
search for him--or one of the guards, at least--had been angry at his
superiors. Just a quick look and to hell with it--that must have been
his attitude.
It made sense in another way. They wouldn't suspect the bin because the
bin was so conspicuous and obvious a hiding place. The Purloined Letter
sort of thing. Crawl into an empty coffin at a funeral and no one will
give you a second glance. All dead men look alike.
The Master Sequence Selector compartment was a coffin, too--a big,
all-metal coffin arching above him and hemming him in. If he hoped to
get out of it alive, he'd have to do more than just beat on the lid
with his fists.
Almost instantly he was ashamed of his thoughts. He had been extremely
lucky so far. The funeral was over, the sod firmly in place. They would
not be likely to dig him up on suspicion, and he could stay buried
until he starved to death.
The worst would be over when they found him. The thirst torment would
be the worst, but if it became unbearable he would still have the
choice of surrendering himself.
Quite possibly he _would_ die of thirst. Quite possibly he could shout
his lungs out and still remain trapped. If a search had been made and