Zrano?”
He had remembered Kimetta’s words about Zrano, and the medallion he wore—her gift—protecting him. But Rock was not absolutely sure that he remembered them exactly. The young guard’s face showed a furtive discomfort, as if Rock had mentioned something very unpleasant. And then the guard left, saying only, “You’ll see! Heaven help you, you’ll see!” His hands were at his sides, lips almost prim. “But don’t think of tomorrow. There is a treat in store today! If you come out to the hall in an hour, you’ll be on the way to a pleasant surprise!”
The compartment door closed in back of him. Rock figured he could have dived after the young man, made it into the corridor, could have held the man as a hostage. But then what?
Rock looked in the desk slots for any audi-reads, but found none. Not even a Bible. He went back and stared at his face in the bathroom mirror, then shrugged and looked away. He was used to taking pleasure from others and giving it to them, but not used to plotting. Still, he would escape. Somehow, he would escape.
The outside door didn’t open until an hour had drifted past. When it did, there was no one there. He went through the door. He was alone in a long and antiseptically white corridor, facing five closed doors, two others on the same side of the corridor as his room. There wasn’t any indication of where to go, or what to do. Right or left? If a long, white corridor could be called confusing, he was certainly confused. His hand went to the circular blue medallion.
A door far down the hall to the right opened halfway. Rock headed in that direction. He half-imagined a pretty girl, maybe Kimetta herself, beckoning with another syringe. He’d not let her put him “under” this time! No way!
Just as he started in that direction, a burly and unshaven man came out of the closer of the other two doors, glanced at him, cocked his head alertly, and then took a step toward Rock.
“I never seen you in my life,” the man said, in a harsh voice, the same voice from the wall Rock didn’t think he’d ever forget. “You’re not from Venus Prison. Who are you?”
“You’ve spoken to me and I’ve listened to you,” Rock told him calmly. “Don’t you recognize my voice?”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. You’re in the next cube! Well, lots of luck, sonny.” The man squinted again. “You’re no older than ’bout forty, I’d guess. Did you have a nice life?”
Rock said, “More or less.” Funny, he wasn’t at all sure how old he was! Effect of the drug?
“Things like this, they hadn’t ought to happen to guys like me who never had a break, shoved from prison world to prison world. Unlucky, that’s me. I, who haven’t been around, haven’t seen much.”
Rock wasn’t going to comment about that. “What’s going to happen to us?” he asked instead.
The burly man seemed distracted. “As I said, my name’s Sanders Bylor.” He shoved forward a ham hock hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Rock’s my name. Niles Rockson.”
He took the huge hand. To his astonishment, something seemed to tickle his palm and he realized that the handshake was a ruse. Something had been put into his hand! Rockson drew his hand back and looked down at it. A gray audi-writing square! A message!
Sanders Bylor made an urgent gesture toward a flap of the new one-piece that Rock was wearing. He put the audi-writing square away, supposing that Sanders, as a longtime prisoner, was used to living with small intrigues. Everything he did that authority wouldn’t know about was a triumph perhaps; a small but solid triumph . . .
Rock looked down the corridor at the door that had opened. Nothing. No one had come out there.
He couldn’t help asking, “What were you arrested for?”
“Smuggling, if that makes any difference now. How I figured to get away with a smuggling job on Venus I’ll never know. The way it is, kid, is that you hear stories about other people who did things, and you
He had remembered Kimetta’s words about Zrano, and the medallion he wore—her gift—protecting him. But Rock was not absolutely sure that he remembered them exactly. The young guard’s face showed a furtive discomfort, as if Rock had mentioned something very unpleasant. And then the guard left, saying only, “You’ll see! Heaven help you, you’ll see!” His hands were at his sides, lips almost prim. “But don’t think of tomorrow. There is a treat in store today! If you come out to the hall in an hour, you’ll be on the way to a pleasant surprise!”
The compartment door closed in back of him. Rock figured he could have dived after the young man, made it into the corridor, could have held the man as a hostage. But then what?
Rock looked in the desk slots for any audi-reads, but found none. Not even a Bible. He went back and stared at his face in the bathroom mirror, then shrugged and looked away. He was used to taking pleasure from others and giving it to them, but not used to plotting. Still, he would escape. Somehow, he would escape.
The outside door didn’t open until an hour had drifted past. When it did, there was no one there. He went through the door. He was alone in a long and antiseptically white corridor, facing five closed doors, two others on the same side of the corridor as his room. There wasn’t any indication of where to go, or what to do. Right or left? If a long, white corridor could be called confusing, he was certainly confused. His hand went to the circular blue medallion.
A door far down the hall to the right opened halfway. Rock headed in that direction. He half-imagined a pretty girl, maybe Kimetta herself, beckoning with another syringe. He’d not let her put him “under” this time! No way!
Just as he started in that direction, a burly and unshaven man came out of the closer of the other two doors, glanced at him, cocked his head alertly, and then took a step toward Rock.
“I never seen you in my life,” the man said, in a harsh voice, the same voice from the wall Rock didn’t think he’d ever forget. “You’re not from Venus Prison. Who are you?”
“You’ve spoken to me and I’ve listened to you,” Rock told him calmly. “Don’t you recognize my voice?”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. You’re in the next cube! Well, lots of luck, sonny.” The man squinted again. “You’re no older than ’bout forty, I’d guess. Did you have a nice life?”
Rock said, “More or less.” Funny, he wasn’t at all sure how old he was! Effect of the drug?
“Things like this, they hadn’t ought to happen to guys like me who never had a break, shoved from prison world to prison world. Unlucky, that’s me. I, who haven’t been around, haven’t seen much.”
Rock wasn’t going to comment about that. “What’s going to happen to us?” he asked instead.
The burly man seemed distracted. “As I said, my name’s Sanders Bylor.” He shoved forward a ham hock hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Rock’s my name. Niles Rockson.”
He took the huge hand. To his astonishment, something seemed to tickle his palm and he realized that the handshake was a ruse. Something had been put into his hand! Rockson drew his hand back and looked down at it. A gray audi-writing square! A message!
Sanders Bylor made an urgent gesture toward a flap of the new one-piece that Rock was wearing. He put the audi-writing square away, supposing that Sanders, as a longtime prisoner, was used to living with small intrigues. Everything he did that authority wouldn’t know about was a triumph perhaps; a small but solid triumph . . .
Rock looked down the corridor at the door that had opened. Nothing. No one had come out there.
He couldn’t help asking, “What were you arrested for?”
“Smuggling, if that makes any difference now. How I figured to get away with a smuggling job on Venus I’ll never know. The way it is, kid, is that you hear stories about other people who did things, and you
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