The Sentinel - Arthur C. Clarke [24]
An instant later, he was dazzled by the light of a powerful electric torch. The beam flickered across his face, held him steadily for a moment, then dipped to illuminate the whole bed—which was, he now saw, nothing more than a mattress supported on rough planks.
Out of the darkness a soft voice spoke to him in excellent English but with an accent which at first Stormgren could not identify.
“Ah, Mr. Secretary, I’m glad to see you’re awake. I hope you feel all right.”
There was something about the last sentence that caught Stormgren’s attention, so that the angry questions he was about to ask died upon his lips. He stared back into the darkness, then replied calmly: “How long have I been unconscious?”
The other chuckled.
“Several days. We were promised that there would be no aftereffects. I’m glad to see it’s true.”
Partly to gain time, partly to test his own reactions, Stormgren swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was still wearing his nightclothes, but they were badly crumpled and seemed to have gathered considerable dirt. As he moved he felt a slight dizziness—not enough to be troublesome, but sufficient to convince him that he had indeed been drugged.
He turned towards the light.
“Where am I?” he said sharply. “Does Wainwright know about this?”
“Smart, aren’t you?” said the voice admiringly. “But we won’t talk about that now. I guess you’ll be pretty hungry. Get dressed and come along to dinner.”
The oval of light slipped across the room and for the first time Stormgren had an idea of its dimensions. It was not really correct to call it a room at all, for the walls seemed bare rock, roughly smoothed into shape. He realized that he was underground, possibly at a great depth. He realized too that if he had been unconscious for several days he might be anywhere on Earth.
The torchlight illuminated a pile of clothes draped over a packing case.
“This should be enough for you,” said the voice from the darkness. “Laundry’s rather a problem here, so we grabbed a couple of your suits and half a dozen shirts.”
“That,” said Stormgren without humor, “was very considerate of you.”
“We’re sorry about the absence of furniture and electric light. This place is convenient in some ways, but it rather lacks amenities.”
“Convenient for what?” asked Stormgren as he climbed into a shirt. The feel of the familiar cloth beneath his fingers was strangely reassuring.
“Just—convenient,” said the voice. “And by the way, since we’re likely to spend a good deal of time together, you’d better call me Joe.”
“Despite your nationality,” retorted Stormgren, “I think I could pronounce your real name. It won’t be worse than many Finnish ones.”
There was a slight pause and the light flickered for an instant.
“Well, I should have expected it,” said Joe resignedly. “You must have plenty of practice at this sort of thing.”
“It’s a useful hobby for a man in my position. I suppose you were born in Poland, and picked up your English in Britain during the War? I should think you were stationed quite a while in Scotland, from your r’s.”
“That,” said the other very firmly, “is quite enough. As you seem to have finished dressing—thank you.”
The door opened as Stormgren walked towards it, and the other stood aside to let him pass. Stormgren wondered if Joe was armed and decided that he probably was. In any case, he would certainly have friends around.
The corridor was dimly lit by oil lamps at intervals, and for the first time Stormgren could see his captor. He was a man of about fifty, and must have weighed well over two hundred pounds. Everything about him was outsize, from the stained battledress that might have come from any of half a dozen armed forces, to the startlingly large signet ring on his left hand. It should not be difficult to trace him, thought Stormgren, if he ever got out of this place. He was a little depressed to think that the other must be perfectly well aware of this.
The walls around them, though occasionally faced with concrete,