Probably last time they had been scared away by Ramm's coming back to the block; next time they would be more thorough. Ramm, for all his help, had demonstrated that he could not protect his prisoner. And though the security chief still main. tained that the safest place for Packer was locked up in his protective cell, Packer disagreed. He had tried it Ramm's way, now he wanted to try it his way.
On his own he would be able to put some distance between himself and his assassins. So, he had escaped, finding the opportunity when he was left alone outside the cell for a few moments while men from housekeeping installed a new couch in his cell. He simply had tapped in a new access code-one that required a single digit. Then he had taken a length of stiff wire from one of the housekeeper's tool carts and slipped it up the sleeve of his jumpsuit.
He waited for the end of the shift-the exact time when his first attack had come-and when he was certain no one was around he produced the wire and went to work on the access panel, bending the wire through the vent holes in the upper portion of the plastic portal.
The burly physicist had been rewarded with success a half hour later when the door slid open. He walked out of the cell block and through the security station like a cat on hot coals. But he had not been seen or challenged.
Now he hurried toward his own quarters in the HiEn section, changing levels and taking the tube tram partway and getting off two stops before his own to backtrack and see if he was being followed.
He reached the HiEn section and went directly to his quarters. While he took precautions against being followed, it never occurred to his trusting heart that his office and living mod would be watched. He entered with the flood of relief which all hunted creatures experience upon reaching the safety of their lairs. His relief proved short-lived.
As his hand moved toward the access plate a voice said, "Don't do that, my friend-if you want to live a little longer."
Packer froze in the darkness. He withdrew his hand and whirled around to face the unseen speaker. He heard a slight creak and a click, and a light struck him in the face.
He blinked and put up his hand. "Who is it?"
"What are you doing here?" his questioner demanded.
The voice was unmistakable. "Kalnikov?"
"Kalnikov-who else?"
Packer saw a hand reach out of the darkness and push the shade of the desk lamp down. The face of the big Russian leaned into the pool of light, grinning. "I am sorry, Olmstead. I had to make sure it was you."
"What are you doing here?"
The pilot shrugged. "I heard you were being held and I came to the only place they would not likely search-the room of one of their own prisoners."
"One of their prisoners-what do you mean? I was under protective custody. Voluntarily."
"Oh, I see. They gained your cooperation at a very cheap price, then."
"Kalnikov, what are you talking about?"
"Ramm and the others. How many others, I do not know yet. But they mean to take over Gotham."
"Ramm?"
Kalnikov nodded slightly. "Didn't you guess? They fooled you completely."
"I guess they did." Packer switched on the lights and crossed the room, collapsing in a chair. Kalnikov settled back at the desk and rested his long arms on the desktop. He looked boyish and bemused, a sly smile jerking the corners of his wide mouth.
"What's so funny, you Soviet sausage? We're both in big trouble."
"I was just thinking how surprised you looked just now. I'm glad it was me that met you rather than someone else."
"You scared me. I wasn't expecting a welcoming committee."
"Your trouble is that in your country you do not have a sufficient tradition of deception to make you naturally suspicious. It is very helpful in situations like this one. It allows you to view your position with a certain amount of objectivity."
"Well then, Comrade Skeptic, what does your naturally suspicious nature tell us we should do?"
"It tells me we should do what freedom fighters in my country have always done-go underground."
"Brilliant!" snorted Packer. "On a donut-even a big tin donut like this one-they'll find us sooner or later. There is no underground."
"My unbelieving friend, there is always an underground. You will be amazed at what we will find. Come now"-the Russian giant got to his feet-"gather up your things. From this moment on we are invisible." …
SPENCE HAD NEVER HEARD an authentic death rattle before. But when he heard it now, he had no doubt what it was: terrible and appalling, these were the last fighting gasps of a human life.
He had been sitting half-asleep beside the boy's sickbed, nodding through the third watch. The boy's mother crouched at the foot of the bed dozing fitfully. Adjani and Gita lay sound asleep in a far corner of the tent; Gita snored softly like a slumbering buffalo mired in his favorite wallow.
At first Spence thought that the rattle, like the gurgle of a broken water pipe, came from outside the tent nearby. He roused himself to look around. The sound came again and he stared in horror at the boy's blue-tinged body. The pale lips parted, the eyes sunken, head tipped back, the young face aged beyond its years by the illness and the glowing fire of fever; the eyelids snapped open and unseeing eyes burned out like black coals. The hideous sound bubbled forth from his young throat.
He watched in mute terror as death grappled hand-to-hand with life for the body of the youngster. Death was winning the contest.
Spence called out in the darkness to Gita and Adjani, fearing to leave the boy's side for an instant lest the inevitable happen. No sound came from his friends; they slept on.
Then, suddenly, the gasp was cut short and an expiring hiss escaped from between the boy's teeth. Spence stared down helplessly. That was it. He was gone. The boy's mother, now fully awake, her eyes wide with terror, sprang forward in a sudden rush of grief, clutching at her child's legs, burying her face in them. For a moment she lay there as though stricken dead herself; then she raised herself up and looked at Spence with eyes full of sorrow and reproach and rushed out of the tent.
Spence was alone with the body.
"No!" he cried. "You can't die!"
He grabbed the small, fragile body in his hands and shook it as an angry child would shake a rag doll. Then, thinking more clearly, he placed his mouth over the boy's nose and mouth and blew gently. He laid the body down and placed the heels of his hands over the boy's heart and gave a quick downward thrust. He blew into the open mouth again and alternated with quick blows to the chest.
"God, don't let this boy die!" Spence prayed, beating on the little chest with the heel of his hand. "Please, God, save him. Please!"
Spence was only partially conscious of the prayer, but he offered it over and over again as he worked, transforming the words into an urgent litany. Sweating and quivering at the same time, head quivering at the same time, he worked like a robot gone berserk, performing his ritual over and over again and mumbling under his breath the plaintive prayer for God to spare the boy's life.
He labored this way for many minutes without response from the child. At last, muscles aching, sweat stinging his eyes, Spence collapsed light-headed over the still body and began to cry.
"God, in this stinking land of death is it too much to ask you to save one life? Where are you? Don't you care?" He sobbed, more out of anger and frustration than sorrow. "Where are you?"