stepped up on the stool, reversed the amplifier and put the bell mouth against the screen.
“SIMS, YOU CRUD, QUIT THAT AND GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” she bellowed.
Shayne had the rheostat all the way up, straining to catch the strangled exchange of dialogue. The sudden roar of the bullhorn almost blew off the top of his head. Barbara and Hank froze.
Shayne’s hand shot toward the rheostat, and at that moment an alien noise, very close, penetrated the static in the earphones. He started to turn, but before he could bring his head all the way around he was hit, very hard, from behind.
chapter 14
The bullhorn went on roaring in his ears. He was trying hard to yell when he lost consciousness.
His first impression was that the Key had blown up around him. He was out of contact with the ground for a time, and then he was plunging down into the crater through a hail of flaming debris. He came to rest at last, and after an unknown period of time he began the long climb back.
When he opened his eyes, the brightness was so painful that he closed them again.
He tried to move. Nothing happened, and he thought at first that his nerve centers were still blocked. Then he discovered that his ankles were bound together and his wrists were lashed behind his back. He was gagged.
He told himself his name and profession. After making that effort he had to rest. Then he told himself where he was. He was on one of the Middle Keys, Key Gaspar. He had been slugged with something hard and jagged. He put his mind to that for a moment. It was unimportant, except that at this stage he had to clear up each confusion before moving on to the next. The nature of the pain suggested something long and narrow, like a spike. He opened his eyes again, and found himself looking directly into the sun. If the sun was up, he had to hurry.
He twitched forward. The earphones and binoculars were gone. The tin can full of cigarette stubs had been knocked over, and stale butts and ashes lay all about him. He twisted so he could look through the hole in the floor. The climbing spikes had been pulled out of their holes and lay scattered about in the long saw-grass at the foot of the tree. In the old days of the buccaneers, prisoners had been either killed or marooned. Though he had been left alive, Shayne had been marooned in a tree house twenty feet in the air.
Arching his back, he was able to see out through the broken wall. The Moorish house, unshaken by the earthquakes and volcanic eruptions that had taken place in Shayne’s vicinity, stood where he had last seen it. The surface of the ocean beyond was flat and unoccupied. There was no sign of life anywhere.
He rested another moment before taking a fresh inventory. It still turned up the same objects-cigarettes, peanut can, a short flagstaff flying a torn bit of black cloth. His attention came back to the can.
It had been opened by peeling off a narrow strip of tin. Finding the top with his thumb, he tested the cutting edge. It was as dull as a butter knife. Working entirely by touch, he maneuvered the can until he was able to get a grip on it with one hand. He bit down hard on the gag and squeezed. The can crumpled slowly under the pressure. He bent it back with his thumb and crumpled it again, then again, trying to tear the edge. It got away from him. He groped after it blindly, looking for something that would give him more leverage.
Bending both knees, he kicked out a rotten plank from one of the side walls. When the plank splintered it left a rusty nailhead protruding from the two-by-four. He jackknifed around with a difficult backward contortion of his rangy body and brought the can and the nailhead together. Several minutes later he was able to open a small, jagged sawtooth in the lip of the can.
His wrists and ankles were bound with the same wire he had traced through the underbrush in the dark. He turned the can end over end and snagged the wire around his wrists in the little nick. Applying only minimum pressure, he began to work his wrists back and forth. The can shot away from him again.
This time it stopped at the edge of the hole in the floor, where the tiniest nudge would send it over. Shayne brought it back to safety with a quick movement of his feet.
He decided to work on his ankles first. By bringing his knees up hard against his chest and straining downward, he could just reach the wire. He worked one strand into his improvised sawtooth, alternately tightening and relaxing his leg muscles while holding the can steady in his numb fingers. He was able to generate a small friction. A moment later the wire snapped.
He freed his ankles quickly. But the quick success made him careless. The hard downward pressure had tightened the wire around his wrists and his fingers were now nearly dead. He wrestled himself into a sitting position, trapping the can against the wall. He leaned back slowly, feeling the sharp point of tin bite into his forearm. He brought it toward his wrists, using the pain as a guide to where it was. It touched the wire for only an instant, then slipped. When he looked for it, it was gone.
Somehow he forced himself to his feet and out on the nearest branch. No one knew where he was but his assailant. If he didn’t get down by himself, he wasn’t going to get down. And he had to do it fast. There was no longer any feeling in his hands at all.
He straddled the branch and began to inch slowly backward. Coming to a lesser branch, he rocked forward, swung one leg over the obstruction and worked slowly past.
Slowly the branch began to sag under his weight. Soon he would have to decide whether to stay with the branch till it broke, or drop off while he had some control over where he would land. The branch cracked while he was still trying to make up his mind.
He landed in a low-growing thornbush, reeled into the open, tripped and went headlong. He came back to his feet by slow stages. He looked up at the tree to get his bearings and began hunting for the path.
He found it and lost it. The vines seemed determined not to let him go this soon. The thick green canopy above seemed to wheel in ever-widening circles, and when he broke out onto the clamshell driveway, caught up in the clockwise rotation of the landscape around him, he turned the wrong way. He kept veering toward the dense wall of foliage, first on one side, then the other. He rounded a bend and saw nothing ahead of him but a long white streak of clamshells. After a long moment he turned back.
Some time later he went around another bend and came upon the house. He lurched up two steps and fell against the kitchen door. When it failed to open, he backed off a step and came at it from the side, trying to reach the knob with his numb hands.
There was a gasp from inside. Eda Lou called, “Who’s out there?”
A figure swam toward him, stopping on the other side of the screen. “Mike Shayne?”
She tried to open the screen, but Shayne had propped himself against it.
“Je-sus! Move. Don’t fall down, for God’s sake. You must know I can’t carry you.”
Shayne pivoted, the door came open and he fell through.
chapter 15
Eda Lou ran to a drawer for a pair of shears and freed his wrists. He brought his arms forward, and levered himself up on his elbows.
“Hold still, I’ll get that thing out of your mouth.” She touched the side of his head to keep it from wavering. “You’re in great shape, aren’t you?”
She picked at the knot at the back of his neck, and when it came loose Shayne spat the gag onto the floor.
“Phone,” he croaked.
“Yes, baby,” she said. “You can tell me all about it as soon as I fix you up so you don’t bleed on my carpets. Lie on the floor. It’s washable.”
He laid his cheek gratefully against the cool black and white tile. He heard her muttering above him while she did something to the back of his head.
“Not as bad as I thought,” she said finally. “In six months you’ll be as good as new.”
Shayne raised his head. “What time is it?” It came out as a meaningless grunt. He said it again, more
