his position in the areaway and found locked.
There were four or five of them, he was never sure, and they were silent and swift and sure. Blade spun his elbow in a face, kicked one man in the knee, got in a flurry of straight punches. He tried to yell and a leather sleeved arm choked off the sound. Something smashed behind his ear and he went to his knees, still fighting, smashing at the first crotch available and hearing a yelp of pain. Lightning skewered his skull as he fought to get to his feet. They were sapping the hell out of him - one - two - one - two -
Someone said: 'Not too hard! Don't kill him!'
They stabbed him. He felt the sting of the long needle as it jammed cruelly through trenchcoat, jacket, shirt and into his hard muscled shoulder. Blade cursed and struck out again, feeling the strength flow out of him, seeing the wet trash strewn concrete of the area-way floor come up to meet him as his knees buckled and he went off the high board into deep, deep darkness.
Chapter Four
Richard Blade found that by concentrating on the oriel window at the far end of the long barren room, and by trying to count the acanthus leaves twining on the supporting corbel, he could in some measure resist the milder of the two drugs he was given. During the long hours he came to regard that oriel window as the eye of Cyclops, of God or the Devil, even as a possible orifice of escape should he get the chance. There did not seem much likelihood of this.
And yet he had the means to escape any time he chose. There was only one drawback. To escape he would have to blow up his captors - and himself along with them. He waited.
Not that he was given much choice as matters stood. He was seldom left alone. There were a lot of them and they worked in shifts. They all spoke English and, indeed, seemed to be English. This did not surprise him. Every nation has traitors for sale.
He lost all track of time. When he regained consciousness he was naked on a long table in the barren room. In darkness except for four brilliant lamps trained on his massive body, ullet so helpless now because of drugs and straps and chains. His captors were only shadows and voices beyond the fringe of the lights.
He knew they were running a Bertillon on him. He was well drugged, yet he understood this. It gave him hope. Credit his own brain power, or Lord Leighton's brain stretching machines and psychological regimes; whatever, it meant that he could fight off the drug meant to keep him unconscious and docile.
Blade feigned unconsciousness. It was the only weapon he had at the moment, other than the lethal capsule he carried in his bowels, and he might not get a chance to use that.
They were very methodical. He felt the occasional touch of a pencil on his flesh as a voice droned out the sum of his scars, moles, warts. His arms and legs were measured and graduated clamps affixed to his skull.
'Dolichocephalic,' a voice said. It went on to register a cephalic index of 70 odd. So he was a long head - Blade could have told them that.
Along with the Bertillon he was given a thorough physical search. They stuck wooden blocks in his mouth and examined every tooth for false caps. Blade had none. His teeth were perfect.
He was turned over and had one hell of a time to keep from squirming as a greased rubber glove searched his rectum.
'Nothing concealed on him,' a voice said. 'Absolutely nothing. I'll swear to that.'
Not on me, Blade thought. In me! Waiting to blow you bastards to hell. As soon as I can figure a way to do it without killing myself, too.
After a long time they left him alone. Still naked, still strapped to the long table, Blade opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the oriel window at the far end of the room. A round bar of moonlight leaked through it. Blade adopted it as a talisman, a refuge, something to cling to. A window was symbolic of a world beyond. It led to freedom. All he had to do was get through it. And as long as he knew it was an oriel window, could count at least some of the acanthus leaves, he was not a total loss, not a mindless thing. He waited patiently, not trying to snap his bonds. Useless, that. They were much too strong. And he did not particularly want his freedom yet - not until he knew more about his situation and about the number and disposal of his enemies. Knew where he was. As of the moment he had not a clue other than the quiet and the hourly chime of a far off bell. He was in the country and not too far from a church. That was all he could be sure of.
He was disappointed when they did not drug him again that night. The stuff was wearing off and so he must face them, fully conscious and deprived of his only weapon. Other than the death he carried in his guts.
When morning came he was given a light breakfast. His right hand was set free and a tray placed on the broad table. Two men served him, one with the tray and another lurking in the background with a pistol in his hand. Neither man would speak. Blade, after the first rebuff, watched the man with the pistol and soon understood that they were all being watched. There was a peephole.
When he finished the meal his right hand was manacled again and the men left. Blade, conscious that he was being watched, lay and stared at the oriel window. The weather was changeable. First a pale beam of sun, then a light flurry of rain, then gloom and, finally, more weak sun. He cared nothing for the weather - the fact that he could see it was important. The oriel window led to the outside.
A man came into the room. He stopped by the door and looked at Blade. Blade stared back. Behind the man the door closed and a bar fell noisily into place.
The man was tall and thin. He wore a well cut suit of blue with a tiny red stripe. Black shoes. Discreet socks and tie. His head and face were covered with a black sack-mask of nylon or silk that made him look like an overdressed executioner. He took a few steps nearer the table and halted, staring at Blade. The eye slits were narrow. All Blade could see was a flash of white cornea.
The voice was impersonalized, void of intonation or accent, as near a mechanical tone as the man could purposely make it.
'You are Richard Blade?'
The big man on the table nodded. 'You know that.'
'Of course I know it, Mr. Blade. I want to hear you admit it.'
A tape recorder hidden somewhere. Along with the peephole. They were running a last check on the real Blade ullet before they put the phony into circulation.
