Inwardly he regretted the idea that had made him suggest this stunt in the first place, namely, that there is safety in numbers. Perhaps he’d be better off without Gurd and his fellow jailbirds. Sure, four heads are better than one, four guns are better than one, but he could do without the official hullabaloo that the escapees would drag behind them like the tail of a meteor.
It was too late to retreat. The jail was now in sight, its great steel doors set in high stone walls. Rolling toward the doors, the two cars stopped. Mowry got out. Skriva followed suit, thin-lipped and resigned.
Mowry thumbed the bell-button set in the wall. A small door which formed a section of the bigger one emitted metallic clankings and opened. Through it an armed guard eyed them questioningly.
“Kaitempi call for three prisoners,” announced Mowry with becoming arrogance.
With a brief glance at the waiting cars and their wert occupants the guard motioned the two inside, closed the door, slid home its locking-bar. “You’re a little early today.”
“Yar, we’ve got a lot to do. We’re in a hurry.”
“This way.”
They tramped after the guard in single file, Skivra last with a hand in a pocket. Taking them into the administration building, along a corridor and past a heavily barred sliding gate, the guard led them into a small room in which a burly, grim-faced Sirian was sitting behind a desk. Upon the desk stood a small plaque reading: Commandant Tornik.
“Three prisoners are required for immediate interrogation,” said Mowry officiously. “Here is the requisition-form, Commandant. We are pressed for time and would be obliged if you’d produce them as quickly as possible.”
Tornik frowned over the form but did not examine it closely. Dialling an intercom phone he ordered somebody to bring the three to his office. Then he lay back in his chair and regarded the visitors with complete lack of expression.
“You are new to me.”
“Of course, Commandant, There is a reason.”
“Indeed? What reason?”
“It is believed that these prisoners may be more than ordinary criminals. We have reason to suspect them of being members of a revolutionary army, namely, Dirac Angestun Gesept. Therefore they are to be questioned by Military Intelligence as well as by the Kaitempi. I am the M.I. representative.”
“Is that so?” said Tornik, still blank-faced. “We have never had the M.I. here before. May I have evidence of your identity?”
Producing his documents, Mowry handed them over. This wasn’t going so swiftly and smoothly as hoped for. Mentally he prayed for the prisoners to appear and put a quick end to the matter. It was obvious that Tornik was the type to fill in time so long as everyone was kept waiting.
After a brief scrutiny Tornik returned the papers and commented, “Colonel Halopti, this is somewhat irregular. The requisition-form is quite in order but I am supposed to hand prisoners over only to a Kaitempi escort. That is a very strict rule that cannot be disobeyed even for some other branch of the security forces.”
“The escort is of the Kaitempi,” answered Mowry. He threw an expectant look at Skriva who was standing like one in a dream. Skriva came awake, opened his jacket and displayed the badge. Mowry added, “They provided me with three agents saying their attendance was necessary.”
“Yar, that is correct,” Pulling open a drawer in his desk, Tornik produced a receipt-form, filled it in by copying details from the requisition. When he had finished he studied it doubt-fully, complained, “I’m afraid I cannot accept your signature, Colonel. Only a Kaitempi official may sign a receipt for prisoners.”
“I’ll sign it,” offered Skriva, sweating over the delay.
“But you have a badge and not a plastic card.” Tornik objected. “You are only an agent and not an officer.”
Mentally abusing this infernal insistence upon rigmarole, Mowry interjected, “He is of the Kaitempi and temporarily under my conmmand. I am an officer although not of the Kaitempi.”
“That is so, but—”
“A receipt for prisoners must be given by the Kaitempi and by an officer. Therefore the proper conditions will be fulfilled if both of us sign.”
Tornik considered this, decided that it agreed with the letter of the law. “Yar, the regulations must be observed. You will both sign.”
Just then the door opened, Gurd and his companions shuffled in with a rattle of wrist-chains. A guard followed, produced a key, unlocked the manacles and took them away. Gurd, now worn and haggard, kept his gaze on the floor and maintained a surly expression. One of the others, a competent actor, glowered at Tornik, Mowry and Skriva in turn. The third, who was subject to attacks of delight, beamed around in happy surprise until Skriva bared his teeth at him. The smile then vanished. Luckily neither Tornik nor the attendant guard noticed this by-play.
Mowry signed the receipt with a confident flourish; Skriva appended his hurried scrawl beneath. The three prisoners silently stood by, Gurd still moping, the second scowling, the third wearing the grossly exaggerated expression of one in mourning for a rich aunt. Number three, Mowry decided, was definitely a dope who’d ham his way to an early grave.
“Thank you Commandant” Mowry turned toward the door.
“Let’s go.”
In shocked tones Tornik exclaimed, “What, without wrist-chains, Colonel? Have you brought no manacles with you?”
Gurd stiffened, number two bunched his fists, number three made ready to faint. Skriva stuck his hand back in his pocket and kept full attention on the guard.
Glancing back at the other, Mowry said, “We have steel anklets fixed to the floors of the cars. That is the M.I. way, Commandant” He smiled with the air of one who knows. “A prisoner runs with his feet and not with his hands.”
“Yar, that is true,” Tornik conceded.
They went out, led by the guard who had brought them there. The prisoners followed with Skriva and Mowry bringing up the rear. Through the corridor, past the barred gate, out the main door and across the yard. Armed guards patrolling the wall-top sauntered along and eyed them indifferently. Pairs of ears strained for a yell of fury and a rush of feet from the administration building, five bodies were tensed in readiness to slug the guide and make a dash for the exit door.
Reaching the wall, the guard grasped the locking-bar in the small door and just then the bell was rung from outside. This sudden, unexpected sound jolted their nerves, Skriva’s gun came halfway out of his pocket. Gurd took a step toward the guard, his, expression vicious. The actor jumped as if stung. Dopey opened his mouth to emit a yelp of fright, converted it into a gargle as Mowry rammed a heel on his foot.
Only the guard remained undisturbed. With his back to the others and therefore unable to see their reactions he lugged the locking-bar. to one side, turned the handle, opened the door. Beyond stood four sour-faced characters in plain clothes.
One of them said curtly, “Kaitempi call for one prisoner.”
For some reason best known to himself the guard found nothing extraordinary about two collecting parties turning up in close succession. He motioned the four inside, held the door open while the first arrivals went out. The newcomers did not head straight across the yard toward the administration block. They took a few steps in that direction, stopped as if by common consent, stared at Mowry and the others as they passed into the road. It was the dishevelled look of the prisoners and the chronic alarm on the face of Dopey that attracted their attention.
Just as the door shut Mowry, who was last out, heard an agent rasp at the guard, “Who are those, hi?”