I used my teeth to tear the metal loose from one of the suspenders. Then I bent down, inserted it in the crack made by the partition, and began working it back and forth against the bolt I could feel there. It was tricky. I guess it was about twenty minutes before I managed to spring the lock.
Then I got down on my belly and poked my head through the flap. It was pitch black in there. I couldn’t see a thing. I pulled my head out and stuck my hand through to see if I could get a hold on anything that I could tug against while trying to squeeze through. I couldn’t find anything.
The only way to do it, I decided, was to go in feet first. I lay down on my stomach and pushed my feet through the flap. Pushing with my hands against the ramp for leverage, I got my legs through all right, but my hips became wedged. I must have scraped off about an inch of skin on each side of my naked backside before I managed to angle through. The waist and chest went easily though, and the next bottleneck I hit was when I tried to push my shoulders through.
I had my arms straight out in front of me with just my head and shoulders protruding from the aperture behind them. I braced my hands as hard as I could and shoved. By reflex, my feet kicked out, and something went crashing to the floor in the darkness inside. Immediately there was a loud caterwauling of many tongues bleating.
The guard shot to his feet and pointed his carbine at me. There was no doubt that he was about to pull the trigger. Only one thing saved me.
His pants fell down!
I think that must have surprised him even more than seeing my head sticking out of the hole in the door. Pure reflex made him drop the carbine and dive for his descending trousers with both hands. Before he could retrieve his gun, I’d given one more mighty shove and propelled myself through the slot to the floor inside. I landed with a crash followed by a loud squeal.
I’d landed smack on top of a Maltese goat. I didn’t blame him for squealing. Even for a goat, being waked up by 190 pounds landing on the ribcage is pretty much of an indignity.
I didn’t stop to apologize. The guard was making loud noises outside, and I could hear footsteps running up. Inside, the goats were bleating again. As I ran from pen to pen through the black interior, I realized this must be the goat-breeding setup I’d heard mentioned before. I began to appreciate Hanson’s devotion to S.M.U.T. It was the worst-smelling place I’d ever encountered.
It was so bad that I actually held my nose as I ran. Over the bleating, I could hear doors being opened now. A moment later lights blazed up overhead and I dived for cover.
I landed behind a pile of feedbags. It had evidently been placed there to block off the entrance to one of the stalls. Behind me I could hear the bleating of a very young kid—a goat-type kid, that is. I balanced on my knees and peered through an opening in the sacks so I might get an idea of how close those searching for me were getting.
They were close. Too close. Too close for comfort. Three of them walked right up to the feedbags and stopped to confer about what the cause of the disturbance might be. One of them leaned on the sacks, no more than the width of a grainsack from my hiding place. If he bent forward just a little and dropped his eyes, he couldn’t help seeing me.
I didn’t dare move-—not a muscle. I stopped breathing, too. And I cursed my heart for beating so loudly, sure that they must hear it any second.
That was the situation when the kid came sniffing up at me from the rear. I felt his nose nuzzle my shirt-tail, and then it was cold against my posterior. I didn’t even dare reach behind me to push him away. He whimpered softly, a whining, hungry baa-baa.
“It’s just that suckling kid,” one of the guards assured the other two when they looked around for the noise. “I told Jorge he was too young to be taken from his mother. He isn’t ready for weaning yet.”
How right he was! The nursing goat stuck its snout into the juncture of the V made by my upper legs and searched with its tongue. I had all I could do to keep balanced on my knees. It found its mark, fastened onto it, and began making gurgling sounds deep in its throat. The sweat poured off me, but I didn’t dare push the kid away .
Go find your mother, kid, I thought to myself fervently as the goat nursed at me more and more eagerly. Please, kid, go find your mother!
Pub-lease!!!
chapter eleven
I HAVE NOTHING against motherhood, even for goats, but it’s not for me. The three S.M.U.T. hirelings were still goofing off and making conversation in front of the pile of feedsacks shielding me from discovery. One of them was still leaning on his elbow, his hand dangling over behind the sacks just a few inches from my nose. The baby goat was getting more aggressive as his attempts to draw sustenance were frustrated. I was caught between the devils and the deep blue suckling instinct.
Finally I couldn’t stand it any more. I had to move. I took the chance. I slid my hand down and pushed the goat’s snout away from the pacifier it had picked.
The movement went undetected, but it didn’t help much, either. The kid whimpered at the rejection, but a moment later it was right back on target again. Again I pushed him away, but again he came right back.
After three or four attempts, I realized that no mere shove would get rid of him. All I’d succeed in doing would be to eventually draw the attention of the thugs searching for me. Still, I had to do something. Then I had a sudden inspiration.
I remembered the fountain pen I’d filled with a sample of goat’s milk back on the Luzona Mam. It was still in my inside jacket pocket. Cautiously, I inched my hand up and managed to get it out.
It seemed like a slow and excruciating process, but I finally got the pen unscrewed and removed the rubber cartridge inside it. The cartridge was filled with milk. With the point of the pen, I poked a small hole in it. I reached down and pushed the kid away again. When he immediately bounced back, as I’d known he would, I shoved the rubber nipple I’d improvised into his mouth. When he realized he was getting milk from it, he sucked away greedily and forgot all about his first target. Eat, baby, eat, I thought to myself, but remember that I draw the line at changing diapers.
At last the three bozos stirred themselves. They drifted away from the pile of feed sacks and joined the other searchers with a little more enthusiasm. The bleating of the goats penned up there grew louder, providing music to search by.
“Suppose he got into the lab?” one of the searchers asked after a while.
It brought the guy who seemed to be in charge up short. “We’d better check and make damn well sure he didn’t,” he said. He started out at a trot, and the others followed behind him.
Finally the last straggler was gone, and I was alone. Just me and the goats. There was a loft across from me. I walked over and climbed up into it. I had to plan my next move, and I didn’t want to be distracted by any other kids trying to take advantage of my pantsless state.
After due consideration, I decided on that next move. I crawled as far back in the loft as I could and went to sleep. It was the most sensible thing to do. Right now the place was crawling with people looking for me. They’d already searched the loft. The chances were against their searching it again, and so it seemed the most sensible place to hide until the furor caused by my entrance died down. Besides, I was damn tired.
The sound of the big door to the ramp being pulled up awoke me. That, and the bleating of the goats, Was the first thing I heard. The first thing I saw was bright sunlight flooding through the opening and filling up my eyes. The first thing I touched was my bare rear end, sore and tender from sleeping on the hard wood floor of the loft. And the first thing I smelled was goat and goat excrement, a heady aroma which wafted through the air and fell somewhat short of Chanel Number Five. So far short that I nearly gagged at the thick odor.