HE was walking endlesslydown a long, glass-walledcorridor. Bright sunlightslanted in through one wall, on theblue knapsack across his shoulders.Who he was, and what he was doinghere, was clouded. The truth lurkedin some corner of his consciousness,but it was not reached by surfaceawareness.
The corridor opened at last intoa large high-domed room, muchlike a railway station or an air terminal.He walked straight ahead.
At the sight of him a man leaningnegligently against a stone pillar,to his right but within vision,straightened and barked an orderto him, “Halt!” He lengthened hisstride but gave no other sign.
[p136]
Two men hurried through adoorway of a small anteroom to hisleft, calling to him. He turned awayand began to run.
Shouts and the sound of chargingfeet came from behind him. Hecut to the right, running toward theescalator to the second floor. Anotherpair of men were hurryingdown, two steps at a stride. Withno break in pace he veered into anopening beside the escalator.
At the first turn he saw that theaisle merely circled the stairway,coming out into the depot again onthe other side. It was a trap. Heglanced quickly around him.
At the rear of the space was arow of lockers for traveler use. Heslipped a coin into a pay slot,opened the zipper on his bag andpulled out a flat briefcase. It tookhim only a few seconds to push thecase into the compartment, lock itand slide the key along the floorbeneath the locker.
There was nothing to do afterthat—except wait.
The men pursuing him camehurtling around the turn in theaisle. He kicked his knapsack toone side, spreading his feet widewith an instinctive motion.
Until that instant he had intendedto fight. Now he swiftlyreassessed the odds. There werefive of them, he saw. He should beable to incapacitate two or threeand break out. But the fact thatthey had been expecting him meantthat others would very probablybe waiting outside. His best coursenow was to sham ignorance. Herelaxed.
He offered no resistance as theyreached him.
They were not gentle men. A tallruffian, copper-brown face dampwith perspiration and body oil,grabbed him by the jacket andslammed him back against thelockers. As he shifted his weightto keep his footing someone drovea fist into his face. He started toraise his hands; and a hard flatobject crashed against the side ofhis skull.
The starch went out of his legs.
“DO you make anything out ofit?” the psychoanalyst MiltonBergstrom, asked.
John Zarwell shook his head.“Did I talk while I was under?”
“Oh, yes. You were supposed to.That way I follow pretty well whatyou’re reenacting.”
“How does it tie in with what Itold you before?”
Bergstrom’s neat-boned, fair-skinnedface betrayed no emotionother than an introspective stillnessof his normally alert gaze. “I seeno connection,” he decided, hiswords once again precise and meticulous.“We don’t have enough togo on