He heard Lila's door open, and he paused in the act of removing a shoe. She stopped in the hail, her fur coat over her arm.
"Couldn't sleep, eh?" he said. "Well, I trust you've got something arranged. It's a little late at night for a pick-up."
She smiled weakly, apologetically. "After all, Doc, I am human."
"Interesting," he said, letting the shoe drop to the floor. "An interesting if debatable statement."
"You-you don't mind my going out?"
"I don't care what you do."
"I need some money, Doc."
"I'll get it for you in the morning."
"I could take a check…"
"You," he said, "can do exactly what you're told. Exactly. Do you understand?"
"I understand," she said, slowly. "Perfectly."
2
COSGROVE
It is five o'clock in the morning of my second day here, and I have been lying awake since one.
Excited and happy? I suppose. I suppose that, beneath this bleached mask which does duty as a face, I am still shouting with wonder and delight. But a man can only enjoy so much and then comes sleep.
I wish I had taken nothing to drink on the way here yesterday. I am positive-almost-that I said and did nothing out of the way. And, yet, of course, I cannot be absolutely positive.
I had nodded agreeably when he explained he never drank while driving; and I expressed my gratitude for his understanding of my need to "forget." I drank without urging, and when about a third of the pint was gone, the questions began.
Why had I chosen him to write to? That was simple. The only periodicals we received in the prison were brag-books--"controlled circulation" publications issued for the purpose of squeezing money from individuals and firms who were doing, or hoped to do, business with the politicians in power. I had got his address from a complimentary advertisement in one of these. I had obtained the address of everyone else I appealed to in the same way.
Did I understand why he had put me through that rigamarole with Warden Fish? I was not prepared to question his actions, I said (and quite sincerely), but I believed I understood. He demanded absolute loyalty from his associates. He would have no use for a man who would abandon loyalty for expediency.
Did I have any close relatives or friends? No. I had a married sister who wrote me a brief note each Christmas. At her request, I did not reply. Our only tie was the accident of birth.
What had I read? Everything in the prison library, contributions to which seemed to have stopped about 1920. All of Shakespeare, Dickens, Swift, Twain, Addison and Steele, Rabelais, Schopenhauer, Marx, Scott,Jules Verne, Wilde, Cervantes, Machiavelli, the Rover Boy series, Lewis Carroll, the Bible, the…
As I talked, I adjusted the wind-wing on the window next to me until I picked up Dr. Luther's reflection in its nickeled frame. He seemed well pleased with my replies, although, due to three slightly protruding upper teeth, the mere relaxation of his features sometimes gives him the appearance of smiling.
He is about fifty, I should judge, but here, again, it is hard to be certain. His hair is thin and sandy. He is considerably overweight for his height, which is something less than mine. His eyes bulge behind thick-lensed glasses. Add to that a soft voice which switches abruptly from the grammatical and precise to the slangy and vulgar-and you have a man whose age, like himself, is no matter for hasty estimation.
I went on talking and watching him as the miles sped by, knowing that my words were becoming blurred. Knowing, then not knowing…
When I awakened hours later, we were only about ten miles from the city, and the car was turning into a roadhouse near the edge of a large lake.
The establishment had apparently been pretty swank at one time, but that had been a long while ago. It was gone to seed now. We were the only patrons. Looking through the window, I could see why. What I thought was a lake was actually a river-a broad, sluggishly moving expanse of greasy sludge and mud and water; the waste from the city's oil field.
Despite the tightly closed windows and the air conditioning system, there was a faint and unpleasant smell of sulphur.
"A little present from the oil companies," he said, with a sudden sour laugh. "They've taken a billion dollars out of this field, and they're taking more every day. But they can't afford to dispose of their sludge!"
I didn't say anything, and he laughed again, the same way, staring down at his almost untouched food.
"I should talk," he said, harshly. "Pat, I'm going to lay my cards on the table. Play straight. Tell you something you'd find out in the next twenty-four hours, anyway…"
"Yes, sir."
"Call me Doc. Everyone does."
"All right, Doc."
"I'm a qualified psychologist, but! haven't practiced in years. I can't give you a job at the clinic because I haven't any. It's just a front for my lobbying. Grafting, in plain English."
I gave him a straight, steady look. "You got me out of Sandstone, Doc," I said. "That's all I need to know about you."
"Well-I'm not apologizing, of course. Hell, they didn't call this state the heart of Balkan America for nothing. When it's a choice of eat or be eaten, what's a sensible man to do?"
"Eat," I said.
He chuckled and made a feinting motion at my chin with his fist. "You'll do, Pat. Now what I had in mind for you was a job with the state-something that won't require any training. How would that suit you?"
"Anything you do will suit me fine," I said. "But-"
"Yes?"
"How can I be of any use to you if I don't work for you?"
"Why should you have to be of any use to me?" His voice was an angry snarl. "Isn't it conceivable that I might want to help you unselfishly? Give you a break when no one else would?"
"I didn't mean to offend you," I said. "I merely hoped to do something in return for what you've done for me."
"Well, skip it," he said. "Maybe we ought to be getting out of here. Later than I thought it was."
He drove slowly, glancing out at the curving river of mud, which, except for its smell, was gradually being lost in the darkness.
3
We passed through the business district, through part of the residential section, and reached the state capital. Its grounds, as you may know, occupy a square mile on the outskirts of the city; the last level land in that neighborhood.
Doc took a street to the south, one leading up a canyon, and, after about a mile, turned in at a house which sat in a cutback against a hillside.
It was a rather old-fashioned, two-story, square-built house, with a long veranda across the front. Except for the ivy-clad trellises, which practically concealed the windows, it seemed out of place in that setting.
Doc drove the car down the driveway and parked it in the one empty stall in the four-stall garage. A couple, a sports roadster, and another sedan-all late models-occupied the others. We walked back down the driveway and around to the front door.