“Does this include Llewellyn Snow?” Blade asked.
“She did not condone her brother’s treachery,” Diekrick said. “And she did inform on Leslie. If our monitoring of her activities does not uncover any latent deviation, she will be spared.”
“How sweet of you,” Blade quipped.
“Now to the matter at hand,” Sol declared. “What will it be?”
“My freedom would be nice.”
“Don’t indulge your infantile humor at my expense!” Sol snapped. “You know very well what I mean. Will you provide the information I want, or does Glisson face the maze?”
Blade gazed at the labyrinth, the Terminators, and finally the hobo. He doubted Gilsson could survive the contest, and he was tempted to answer all of Sol’s questions. But his primary responsibility was to the Family and the Home; if he gave Diekrick everything the Peer wanted, he would be betraying the trust of those who relied upon him. There was no telling what the Peers would do. They might decide to send a demolition or commando team to destroy the Home, which had already survived assaults by scavengers, mutants, Russians, the Doktor’s forces, Trolls, and others. Under no circumstances would he endanger the compound again.
“What will it be?” Sol demanded once more.
“Go sit on a pitchfork.”
“You have sealed his doom,” Sol said, and pressed the brown button.
Reacting instantly, as if they were eager to commence, the four Terminators entered the maze.
Glisson was shoved by the two Storm Police. He nearly fell, glared at them, then walked into the network of confusing passageways. The Storm Police exited through the right-hand door, which promptly closed.
“At last!” Eldred Morley exclaimed.
Blade’s gray eyes narrowed as he studied the maze, following the progress of the Terminators and Glisson. From his vantage point, thanks to the elevation of the room, he could see all five participants, but only from the waist up. Their lower extremities were obscured by the six-foot-high walls.
“I wager the bum doesn’t last ten minutes,” Clinton Brigg commented.
“I’ll take you up on that,” Lilith said.
“Do you feel like talking yet?” Sol asked the Warrior.
Blade shook his head, his arm muscles tensed, seemingly anxious for Glisson’s safety but surreptitiously straining on the handcuffs.
“Suit yourself,” Sol stated, gazing at the maze.
The Terminators had separated, taking different branches. Glisson was proceeding at a snail’s pace, fearfully looking around every corner before venturing into the next passage.
“What a timid mouse,” Sol said contemptuously.
“I’d like to see how brave you’d be,” Blade commented.
Diekrick laughed. “Never happen.”
Blade looked at the metal table to his left, at the glass pane, then at the Storm Police ringing the walls, calculating distances and odds. He estimated the nearest trooper was 15 feet away; the table was only six feet off; and the space between the end of the table and the glass pane was a mere yard.
“Hey! The scum has stopped,” Morley complained.
Indeed, Glisson had halted at an intersection and was appraising each option with transparent anxiety.
“What happens if he goes back?” Blade inquired.
“Back to where he started?” Sol asked.
Blade nodded.
“The Terminators are empowered to fry him anywhere in the chamber, even by the door,” Sol disclosed. “His best bet is to keep moving and not to lose his sense of direction.”
“That pathetic excuse for a human couldn’t find his butt in the dark with both hands,” Morley cracked.
Blade glanced casually at the table again. “Why did you bring my Bowies?”
“To make the next contest more challenging,” Sol replied.
“You’re sending me in there next?”
Diekrick grinned maliciously. “I’m a patient man, but my patience is not unlimited. If you won’t divulge the information I want, then you will be next. A fresh Terminator squad will be sent in, and it will be their flamethrowers against your Bowies.” He chuckled. “We anticipate great entertainment.”
“I hope I don’t disappoint you,” Blade remarked.
“I hope our other guests arrive in time,” Sol said.
Blade stepped up to the pane, watching Glisson take a passage to the tramp’s left. He assessed the span from the pane to the floor below at 20 feet. For someone of his stature, 20 feet wasn’t insurmountable. The falling glass, though, would pose a definite hazard. If he could—
Wait a second.
What was this?
Blade inspected the pane minutely for several moments. “This isn’t glass,” he declared.
Sol Diekrick appeared amused by the observation. “Of course it isn’t.
Glass became outdated decades before the war because of its nasty habit of cutting people when broken. Substitutes were quite common. This substance, for instance, is called Polyperv.” He tapped the pane. “It has all of the positive qualities of glass, but it doesn’t contain the same flaws.
When Polyperv shatters, the fragments tend to be large instead of fractured splinters as with glass. And the fragments have a duller edge than with glass. A person is less likely to be cut.”
“Interesting,” Blade remarked. “I remember reading about bullet-proof substances, virtually shatterproof, used prior to the Big Blast. Is this one of those substances?”
“Polyperv? No. Why would we bother to install an expensive bulletproof panel here? The pane is highly fire resistant, though,” Sol responded.
“How convenient,” Blade said, taking a step to his left, a step closer to the table.
And his Bowies.
“Why this intense interest in the window?” Sol asked. “Don’t you care if Glisson lives or dies?”
Blade nodded, taking another stride, his eyes on the maze. “Of course I care.”
“You could have fooled me,” Sol said.
“I hope to,” Blade replied, and glanced at the doorway to the room.
“Who’s the guy with the machine gun?”
It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, and the Warrior performed the ruse flawlessly. By conveying an attitude of nonchalance, and by phrasing his question casually, he succeeded in temporarily diverting the attention of everyone in the room to the door. In the few seconds required for them to realize there was no one there, he accomplished his goal.
Blade’s massive arm muscles bulged, his shoulders rippling, as he exerted all of his strength. His features reddened and his teeth clenched, and with a loud crack the links connecting the cuffs parted. Before the Peers and the Storm Police could perceive his purpose, he leaped to the table and grabbed the Bowies.
“Get him!” Sol Diekrick bellowed.
The Storm Police rushed the giant.
Chapter Eighteen
“Where did they come from?” one of the Freedom Fighters cried.
“We’re trapped!” yelled another.
“Into the storm drain!” Locklin ordered, motioning at the opening in the grate.
Dozens of bright beams of light caught the Freedom Fighters in a stark glare as the Storm Police produced flashlights.
“Drop your weapons!” the man with the megaphone repeated. “Now!”
Locklin gripped Hickok’s right arm and pushed the Warrior toward the drain. “Go!”
“We’re not leavin’ you,” Hickok said.
“Some of us can escape through the drain, but we must move quickly. Now go!” Locklin snapped.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi surveyed the scene, noting the Storm Police steadily advancing with their automatic rifles at the ready and the compact mass of rebels with their backs, literally, to the wall. He moved to the grate and crouched in front of the hole in the bars. “Come on,” he said to the gunman, then slid inside.