This was it. End of the line. Purgy. The purgatory before hell. Fed and healed to make the stay that much longer. The sentence with only one end.
Oh yeah! I said silently to myself, and permitted a wide grin to brush my lips under the cover of the blankets. My back itched under the transparent plastic patches and I scratched them happily. They were invisible to the eye, but coated with a lead-antimony alloy that blocked X rays. I had gambled on the fact that this place would not have expensive tomographs or such—and had won. On the two-dimensional X-ray plates the plastic patches on my legs looked like metal pins, on my skull dark staples. They had done their job, would dissolve and vanish the next time I washed.
I had done it! The first part of this operation was complete. Finding out about this hospital-prison had been the hardest part. It took a lot of risky work getting into planetary-government files before I managed to track it down. Risky but interesting. Guiding the twins in their successful semilegal careers had kept Angelina and me pretty busy. Now that they were successful, and rich I must add, we had been enjoying what might be called semiretirement. This suited Angelina quite well since she was happy with all those pleasure planets and luxury cruises. I, as you might very well imagine, loathed it. If I hadn't been able to polish off the occasional bank or lift a lucrative space yacht I might have gone around the twist. But it wasn't real work. Then this wonderful opportunity had revealed itself. A tiny item in the nightly news. I printed it out and brought it to Angelina. She read it swiftly, put it down in silence.
"We ought to do something," I had said.
"No" was her quick response.
"I think we owe him something—or at least you do."
"Nonsense. A grown man makes his own decisions."
"Yes, of course. I still want to find out where they have sent him."
When I had tracked him down and discovered the secret location of Terminal Penitentiary, I told Angelina of my plan. Her eyes narrowed as I spoke, her face grew grim. When I had finished speaking she nodded slowly.
"Do it, Jim. It is dangerous and looks suicidal—but you are probably the only man in the galaxy who could pull it off. With my help, of course."
"Of course. Your first task will be to find a bent but professionally competent doctor."
"Not a problem. Did you ever hear of a doctor—or a lawyer—bent or not, who could resist the continual flutter of bank notes onto a tabletop?"
"Now that you mention it—no. How is our expense account?"
"Running a little low. We could use a few million more. Why don't you knock off a really juicy bank while I line up the medic."
"Music to my ears."
But almost a year went by before the preparations were complete. There would be no rushing in, guessing or taking chances. Because if every detail were not worked out to the last decimal point I was going to be spending an awful lot of time behind bars.
Angelina came to pick me up at the clinic—and recoiled in horror.
"Jim—you look awful!"
"Thank you. It was quite an effort. Losing weight was easy enough, as well as skin aging, hair dyeing, all the usual things. It's the muscles I miss the most."
"Me too. Your gorgeous figure—"
"Wasted away with enzymes. No choice. If I am going to pass for an ancient crock I have to look like one. Don't worry, a few months of bodybuilding when this is over and I'll be as good as new."
A tear glistened in her eyes and she gave me a warm hug. "And you're doing this for me."
"Of course. But for him as well—and for Jim diGriz so I can look at myself in the mirror. Not that I really want to just now."
And that had been that. Pulling off an inept jewel robbery and getting nicked had been the easy part. I just made sure that the crime was committed on Heliotrope-2, the site of the original news report that had started this entire thing rolling.
It had rolled well. Here I was in Purgy and I had one week to acquaint myself with the layout, the alarms and videoscanners, before the operation went into phase two. It was time well spent. At breakfast next morning I looked around at all the bald heads and gray polls of my fellow inmates and found him at once. And stayed away. Time enough to renew an old acquaintance at the proper moment. As I spooned up the purple gruel I took everything in. And started with surprise.
Could it be him? Yes, it was. His hair was white now, his face tracked with countless wrinkles. But after two months together in an ice cave—well, there are things you just don't forget. I followed him after we had dumped our trays, sat down next to him in the morning room.
"Been here long, Burin?" I asked.
He turned his head and blinked at me nearsightedly—then his face lit up with a smile.
"Jimmy diGriz as I live and breathe!"
"And I'm most glad that you are living and breathing! Burin Bache, the best forger in the history of the galaxy."
"Kind of you to say that, Jimmy. And it was true at one time. Not lately—" The smile faded and I quickly put my arm around him.
"Do you still get chilblains in your ankles?"
"You bet I do! You know—I still can't put ice into a drink. Hate the sight of it."
"Yes, but the ice cave was only a hiccup. . . ."
"Some hiccup! But you're right there, Jimmy me lad. After what we hauled down on that job I didn't have to work for ten years. You were young but you were a genius. Hate to see you ending up here like me. Never thought they would get you."
"Happens to the best of us."
As I spoke I had my stilo concealed in my cupped hands, printing a quick message on my palm. Then I rubbed my chin with the back of my hand and waited until Burin had looked at it, his eyes widening.
"Got to go now," I said as I blurred the message with a saliva-dampened fingertip. "See you around."
He could only nod shocked and silent agreement as I left. I couldn't blame him. Since his incarceration I am sure he never thought he would ever read those words.
WE'RE GETTING OUT OF HERE.
The immense bribe that Angelina had paid to the city official had been well worth it. The building permission floorplans had not been complete—but they sufficed. I got close to the room we had selected on the second day, stuffed my stilo into the keyhole on the third. After being held in my armpit for an hour, the memory plastic of which it was made had softened to the consistency of clay. A moment after being pressed against the cold metal it had hardened into a perfect mirror image of the lock's innards.
We were permitted an hour in the garden every day and I had found a bench that was well away from any sites that might have held videoscanners. I sat there, apparently dozing over an open book. You would have to stand very close to see what I was doing.
That morning I had stripped off part of the plastic covering of my battered wallet. And chewed it well. It had not tasted as bad as some of the meals we had consumed. It had reacted with my saliva and had softened to a nice doughy consistency. And had remained that way in the darkness of my pocket. Now I pressed it against the mold of the lock's interior. It should be shaped to duplicate the key that would open it. When I was satisfied with the effort I held the plastic in the warm sunshine. The catalyst it contained reacted with the light and it hardened instantly.
Logically I should have waited for the right moment to try to open that door. But I had to make a dry run. Get any problems out of the way so I could move quickly and smoothly at the decided time.
Burin was more than happy to help. We synchronized watches and at the precise moment I reached the door he stumbled and fell onto the table where the card game was in progress. There was a great crashing, shouts of anger and dismay as I slipped the homemade key into the keyhole. Turned and pressed.