“I saw most of it. I saw the ship go past the Station and start to explode. I saw that black wing, or whatever it was, drop off. Then someone started shouting in here and I came back. They say it crashed on Earth”.
“That’s right”, Corriston said, telling himself that he was a damned fool for wanting to look at her hair and hear her friendly woman’s voice when every passing second was adding to his danger.
“You saw it crash?”.
Corriston nodded. “I just came from the promenade”. “That was a crazy thing to ask you. How excited can you get? I saw you come through that door. You looked kind of pale”.
“I still feel that way”, Corriston said.
The waitress then said a surprising thing: “I wonder what it is about some men. You just have to look at them once and you know they’re the sort you’d like to be with when something terrible happens. You know what I mean?” “Sure”, Corriston said. “Any port in a storm”.
The waitress smiled again. “I don’t mean that, exactly. Please don’t think I’m handing you a line. There’s just something... comfortable 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.
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 thorough 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.
