Space Station 1

If he ever got the chance, he’d come back and tell her exactly how grateful he was. Right at the moment one consideration alone dominated his thinking. If he could get past the guard he could hide out in an intricate maze of machinery. Even if they sent a dozen guards down to look for him it would take them some time to locate him. He could hide-out and gain a breathing spell.

The waitress had a very small hand. Abruptly Corriston clasped it and held it for an instant, his fingers exerting a firm, steady pressure. “Thanks,” he said.

Corriston swung about without glancing toward the end of the counter. He’d pass the guard quickly enough; there was no sense in alerting the man in advance. As for recognizing him, that would be no problem at all. You couldn’t mistake a Security Guard no matter what kind of clothes he wore.

Corriston took his time. He walked slowly, refusing to hurry. A man under surveillance should never hurry. He should be casual, completely at his ease, for there is no better way of keeping an observer guessing.

He kept parallel with the long counter, his shoulders swaying a little with the assurance of a man who knows exactly where he is going. Presently the entire length of the counter was behind him, and he was less than a yard from the door.

He hadn’t glanced once at the counter. He didn’t intend to now. One quick leap would carry him thorough the door and beyond it, and to hell with recognizing the guard. When it was touch and go and odd man out, you altered your plan as you went along.

He’d seen a girl disappear when everyone said it didn’t happen. Confined to a psycho-ward, he had simply walked out, eluded a killer, and watched a ship explode on the green hills of Earth. He’d survived all that, so how could one lone Security Guard stop him now?

He was preparing to leap, when something got in his way — a shadow — a shadow for an instant between himself and the door, and then a dark bulk stepping right into the shoes of the shadow and filling it out.

The Security Guard was not at all the kind of person he’d expected him to be. He was not a big ape, not even a muscular-looking man. He had simply seemed big for the instant he took to fill the place of his shadow. He was a man of average height, average build. He blocked the doorway without bluster, looking very calm and relaxed. Only his eyes were cold and accusing and dangerously narrowed as he surveyed Corriston from head to foot.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to go back to the ward now,” he said. “You picked a bad time to take a turn about the Station. Ordinarily you’d be privileged to do so. That’s part of the therapy. But you picked a very bad time.”

“I’m beginning to realize that,” Corriston said. “I couldn’t help it, though. I had no way of knowing that freighter was out of control. I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, too, though. I’m not going back to the cell.”

Corriston had been watching the man’s right arm. Suddenly it went back and his fist started rising, started coming up fast at an angle that could have sent it crashing against Corriston’s jaw.

Corriston had no intention of letting that happen. He side-stepped quickly and delivered a smashing blow to the pit of the guard’s stomach. The blow was so solid that it doubled the guard up. His knees buckled and he started to fold.

Corriston didn’t take the folding for granted. A second blow caught the man squarely on the jaw and a third thudded into his rib section. For an instant he looked so dazed that Corriston felt sorry for him.

He was still half-doubled up when he sank to the floor and straightened out. He straightened out on his side first, and then rolled over on his back and stopped moving. His lips hung slackly, his eyes were wide and staring.

The look on his face gave Corriston a jolt. It was a very strange look. The fact that his features had become slack was not startling in itself, but there was something unnatural, unbelievable, about the way that muscular relaxation had overspread his entire countenance. His features were putty-gray and they seemed to have no clearly defined boundaries.

His nose, eyes, and forehead looked as if the ligaments which held them together had snapped from overstrain or had been severed by a surgeon's scalpel . . . severed and allowed to go their separate ways without interference.

In fact, there was no real expression on the man’s face at all — no recognizably human expression — not even the stuporous look of a man knocked suddenly unconscious.

There was agitation now in the cafeteria, a hum of angry voices, a rising murmur that was coming dangerously close. Corriston shut his mind to it. He knelt at the guard’s side and swiftly unbuttoned the unconscious man’s heavy service jacket. He felt around under the jacket until he was satisfied that he could move on through the doorway with a clear conscience. The guard’s heart was beating firmly and steadily. There was a reassuring warmth under the jacket as well, a complete absence of clamminess.