Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [33]
In the corridor, Lafayette, still gasping, fixed his eye on the intersection ahead. Just around the corner, he improvised. There's a . . . a policeman. He'll arrest these two.
The pikemen shoved him roughly past the turn; the corridor was empty of cops. Too bad. Must be a spot he'd already seen and thus couldn't change. But that door just ahead: it would open, and a python would come slithering out, and in the confusion—
"Keep moving, you!" the pikeman pushed him roughly past the door, which failed to disgorge a snake.
A gun, then, in his hip pocket—
He reached, found nothing. He should have known that one wouldn't work; he had just put the trousers on a few minutes earlier, and there had been no armaments bagging the pockets then—beside which, how could he concentrate with these two plug-uglies hauling at him? A sharp jerk at his arm directed him down another side way. He stumbled on, assisted by frequent jabs and blows, down stairs and more stairs, into a dim malodorous passage between damp stone walls, past an iron gate into a low chamber lit by smoking flambeaux in black iron brackets. He leaned against a wall, trying to decide which of his bruises hurt worst, while his pike-wielding acquaintance explained his case in a few terse words to an untrimmed lout with thick lips, pale stubble and pimples.
"One o' them guys, huh?" The turnkey nodded knowingly. "I know how to handle them kind."
"Wait . . . till I get my breath," O'Leary said. "I'll . . . visit you . . . with a plague of boils . . ."
A blow slammed him toward a barred gate. Hard hands hustled him through to a moldy oak-plank door. Keys jangled. The blond jailer cuffed him aside and hauled the door open with a rasp of dry hinges. O'Leary caught a glimpse of a stone floor and a litter of rubbish.
Damn! If he'd just thought to picture something a trifle cozier, before he saw it.
"Kind of crummy quarters fer a dude like youse, Buster," the turnkey leered. "You got straw, but I'll give ye a clue: Use the bare floor instead. We got a few fleas and stuff, you know?" Then a foot in the seat sent O'Leary spinning inside and the door thudded behind him.
Chapter VI
O'Leary sat on the floor, blinking into total blackness. Some day he'd have to read up on Freudian dream symbolism. All this business of stumbling around in the dark being beaten by large men must be some sort of punishment wish, probably arising from guilt feelings due to the Adoranne and Daphne sequences—particularly the former.
O'Leary got to his feet, felt his way to a wall, made a circuit of the cell. There were no windows, unless they were above his reach; and just the one door, massive and unyielding. He heard a furtive scuttling. Rats, no doubt. Not a very nice place to spend the rest of his dream. He sighed, regretting again he had been too rattled to provide a few amenities before it was too late. But perhaps he could still manage something . . .
Light, first. A candle would do. He pictured a two-inch stub lying among the litter in the far corner . . . and a match in his pocket.
There was a thump, as though the universe had gone over a tar strip in the road. O'Leary groped among odds and ends, felt straw, small bones—and a greasy lump of wax with a stub of a wick. Aha! Now for a match. In his pocket, a small item like that could have passed unnoticed. He checked, felt the smooth cover of a match folder, pulled it out and lit up. The candle burned with a feeble yellow flame, its light confirming his first impression of the cramped cell. Well, that part couldn't be helped, but it would be wise to think carefully about his next move.
O'Leary settled himself on the driest spot on the floor. It looked as though he were stuck here unless he could manage to regain the sanctuary of his room back at Mrs. MacGlint's house. The last two tries hadn't worked out, but then that was to be expected. After all, who could focus the Psychic Energies with someone hauling him toward a paddy-wagon or threatening to stick a foot of razor-edged steel into