He came up with a gasp and a shudder. For a moment the illusion was still so strong that he felt the cold water streaming from his hair; then he saw that he was in a white room, and felt the cushiony hardness of a bed under his back. The light was an old fluorescent, in a bare ceiling. There was movement, a rustle of paper; a figure came toward him.
It was Frankie. "Feeling better?" the gargoyle asked.
"I guess so. My head hurts. What happened?"
Frankie grinned. "The argon knocked you out, misser. Soon as we come in the door, over you go, blam."
"The argon?" said Dick stupidly.
"In the little drugstore. All those places got a little trickle of argon coming in all the time, to take care of the leakage. We never bothered to plug it up, you know, because it don't bother you if you just go in for a minute."
A concentration must have built up, he thought fuzzily; argon wasn't poisonous, but if there was enough of it in the air, it could asphyxiate you. That had been his mistake; he had taken it for granted that the place had aired out; otherwise he never would have -
He sat up suddenly. "Where's Elaine?"
The gargoyle pointed silently. On the far side of the room was another narrow bed. She lay on it, pale, eyes closed.
Dick made a sound and tried to get up, but Frankie pressed him back down. "She all right, misser -- just you lay down and rest. She come out of it any minute."
Dick lay back, feeling too dizzy to argue. Frankie clicked his tongue sorrowfully, looking down at him. "What you doing down here anyway, misser? You look like a nice boy. What for you want to come a-sneaking down upon us thisa-way?"
Dick stared at him. "What do you mean, sneaking down on you?"
"Nev mind. I'm asking the questions here, not you. What's your name, misser?"
Dick's puzzlement grew. "Frankie, don't you know me? I'm Dick Jones."
"Dick Jones," said the gargoyle, licking the stub of a pencil. He scrawled laboriously on a scrap of paper held on his knee. "That's righ', I guess it mus' of slip my mind. And what's her name, Misser Jones?"
Dick said nothing. Glancing down, he had seen something incredible: Frankie was wearing a revolver on his hip.
... sneaking down upon us ... We never bothered to plug it up ...
"Her name is Clorinda Jones," he said, improvising. "Uh, she's my cousin." He watched the gargoyle painfully writing. "Frankie, you haven't been upstairs lately, have you?"
"Not for a good long time," said Frankie, shaking his head. "Going to go up pretty soon, though. Now what was you and the lady doing down here anyway?"
"Running away from the turnover." He waited again. "What were you doing in that drugstore?"
"Medicine," Frankie grunted. "We had to git medicine. Which side was you on, in the turnover?"
"Neither side," said Dick prudently. "There was a lot of shooting and, uh, Clorinda was frightened, so I took her belowstairs. Then we got lost."
"M-hm," said Frankie. He finished writing and put his paper away. "Well we see if the Old Man believe that. Come awn."
Dick got up. "The Old Man?" He wavered for a moment, and caught himself; he was a little dizzy.
"That righ'. Come awn, don't keep him waitin'."
As they passed the other cot, Dick bent over. Elaine's head moved; her pale lids flickered open.
He was down on. one knee, cradling her head in his arms. "Are you all right?"
Her eyes focused; she seemed to recognize him. "Feel so funny," she said. Her arms went around him weakly.
"All righ', all righ', we take her too," said Frankie behind him. "See can she wawk; git her up."
Dick shot him a glance of resentment, then turned and helped Elaine to sit up. She stood, with his arm around her. "What happened?" she asked, looking around. "Ooh, I have such a headache."
"You'll be all right. Come on, somebody wants to see us."
With Frankie behind them, they walked out into a bare, drafty corridor. "Turn righ'," said the gargoyle. They passed rows of stacked cartons, then an open doorway with massive machinery behind it; then a wide open space where a dozen Frankies sat at typewriters, all industriously clicking away. Then they turned again, and were stopped by a Frankie with an Army rifle.
"For the Old Man," said their Frankie, and the other one stepped aside.
They passed on into another room where two Frankies sat at desks with telephones, and were stopped again. Elaine seemed to be fully awake now, and was looking around with surprise and apprehension. While the Frankies' attention was on each other, Dick whispered in her ear. "They don't know who you are -- I told them you're my cousin, Clorinda Jones. Play up."
As they moved on again, she glanced at him and nodded. Then they were in still another room, a big room lined with what looked like enlarged floor plans. There were desks here and there, with Frankies quietly working; in the middle, at a desk with a telescreen, sat someone who was obviously the Old Man.
He looked up as they approached, and Dick's breath caught sharply. It was a Frankie, but a Frankie twenty years older -- heavy-set, grizzled, with the grotesque ugliness of his features turned to something like dignity. He glanced up incuriously at them, then went on talking into the instrument in his hand.
After a moment, he looked up again. "Yes?"
"These here the two we found in the drugstore, misser."
Dick caught his breath again. Hearing one slob address another as "mister" was a shock, even when it only confirmed what he had already seen.
Down here, burrowing like moles in the subterranean parts of Eagles, the Frankies had created a world of their own. Like all the servants at Eagles, they were supposed to be "rotated" at forty or earlier: sent away to other establishments, in theory; actually, lolled and disposed of. But here was a Frankie who had obviously lived at least a decade past his span; and here were others who had not been upstairs for years. Surplus Frankies, probably, duped for some special job and then, instead of being destroyed, smuggled down here. He could only guess at how long it had been going on.
The telescreen speaker clattered briefly. The Old Man studied the screen, then said into the mike in his hand: "Let me see Level Two again." The bluish light from the screen nickered. The Old Man said, "Send the heavies aroun' by the Oval Corridor." He watched a moment longer, then looked up at Dick and Elaine.
He said, "Where else besides Eagles did Melker plan a turnover?"
Dick answered carefully. "That would be something known to the conspirators, not to me." His tone was neutral; he couldn't treat the Old Man as an equal, but there was no point in antagonizing him by unnecessary stiffness.
The Old Man said, "I let you lie to me once. Don't try it again." He turned his attention to the screen once more. "Level One." A confused roaring came from the speaker.
After a moment the Old Man looked up. "Where else besides Eagles did Melker plan a turnover?"
Dick began to sweat. Slob though he was, there was something intimidating about the fellow. Unwillingly, he said, "Melker had connections in Indian Springs and Mont Blanc and a few other places -- people he was sure would take the lead in acknowledging him. But he didn't plan any real turnover anywhere but here -- he didn't think it was necessary."
There was a pause. Dick stared in frustration at the TV on the desk. What was going on up there?
The Old Man said. "Did any of them escape besides yourself, that you know of?"
Dick shook his head numbly. "I saw Melker dead ... and Oliver ... a lot of others."
"Where was that?"
"On the TV -- I wasn't there myself." He added, "I wasn't in the fighting at all ... I came away as soon as I could."