For lack of anything else to do, he donned shirt, slacks, and shoes. They hadn't even brought him underclothing. No Tri-Di set, not even a radio or books. The pockets of his slacks were empty.
There came a gentle knock at the door and Harold Dunninger looked up, apprehensive again. Before he could respond, a stranger entered.
None of the kidnappers he had thus far seen had looked like desperadoes. They had been dressed as proles, but they hadn't been vicious, in spite of the circumstances. But this one was different.
Among other things, he was only about twenty, and one had to look twice to realize that he wasn't younger. He had what only could be described as a hesitant face. Polite, well bred, fresh-faced, as though he hadn't been shaving very long, and far from aggressive. His expression was almost apologetic. He was well-dressed in sports clothing and wouldn't have looked out of place with a tennis racket in his hand.
He said, "Good afternoon, sir."
Harold Dunninger stared at him. "Who the hell are you?"
The other flushed. "My name's Thomas Spaulding, sir." He stood there almost like a waiter or a butler at attention.
Dunninger continued to eye him. He said finally, "Well, what do you want?"
"I've come to… to be with you, sir. Do you mind if I sit down?"
"It's your jail," the older man snapped, somehow feeling relief at this development, somehow gaining courage from the appearance of this inoffensive youngster. He himself took one of the chairs at the table.
"I'll do what I can to make you as comfortable as possible under the circumstances."
The tycoon snorted in disgust. "Comfortable! Under these conditions? What could you do to make me comfortable?"
"Anything within reason—something to read, something to eat besides those sandwiches? Perhaps, something to drink beyond the beer there? Writing materials? Or would you just like to talk?"
"Talk about what, goddamn it?"
"Anything you like, sir. I'm here to keep you company."
"Thanks," Dunninger said, even able by now to mount sarcasm.
Thomas Spaulding looked anxious and cleared his throat. "Perhaps you'd like a Bible. Or would you prefer a United Church brother to talk to?"
"Those ignorant bigots? There's never been such a corrupt, stupid religious movement in the history of the race. I'm a Catholic, boy!"
"Yes, sir. I remember now. Would you like a priest?"
The cold went through Harold Dunninger and his face went slack. After a long moment he said, "What do you mean, would I like a priest?"
Young Spaulding said, "I am not superstitious myself, sir, but I have no prejudice against those who are. I thought… I thought it was the custom of your faith to make peace with your God before…" He let the sentence dribble away.
The older man stared at him, cold fingers walking down his spine. Finally, he got out, "You're going to shoot me. That leader of yours, that one who talked me out of the bomb shelter. He said you wouldn't kill me."
"Comrade Ostrander knew you wouldn't be killed if the ransom was paid. But I doubt if he promised anything more. You have twenty-four hours, sir. If the fifty million pseudo-dollars is not forthcoming by that time, I am afraid that… that your life is forfeit.''
"Fifty… million… pseudo-dollars."
"Yes, sir. Comrade Ostrander has already made the initial contact. The ransom is to be paid into a special numbered account in Tangier. And there must be guarantees that no attempt will be made to prosecute anyone. If such attempts are made, you will be, uh, eliminated."
Harold Dunninger slumped back in his chair, his eyes wide. Betty would never permit such a sum to escape her hands. Yes, it was available. But she would never… not Betty. In spite of the fact that she had been bom into luxury, and certainly had lived in luxury, Betty was a compulsive pennypincher. She made a point of prowling the kitchen, enraged if the servants opened a bottle of wine for themselves. The allowance she doled out to the boys was a farce. Harold Dunninger augmented it secretly each week. Her pennypinching was proverbial. Fifty million pseudo-dollars? No. Never from Betty, even in the best of times.
Harold Dunninger said shakily, "I'll take that drink."
"Yes, sir." Young Spaulding got up and went to the door, opened it, and stuck his head out, obviously speaking to a guard stationed in the hall.
Dunninger's mind raced. Or tried to. He had to get out of here somehow, within twenty-four hours. Was this kid armed? If so, was there any way to take his gun, and get through the guard which they obviously would have posted? He closed his eyes and groaned. Harold Dunninger was no muscle-bound hero. He'd let himself go to pot over the years. He'd never been much for sports, even as a youngster. And even if he was able to overwhelm Spaulding, there would be more of them beyond, downstairs—Men trained and experienced with guns, while he hardly knew enough to fire one. He closed his eyes in sick dismay, his stomach beginning to roil.
Tom Spaulding returned with a squat bottle and a glass and put them on the table before the captive.
Dunninger shakily took off the bottle's cap and poured. It was a bottle of his own prehistoric whiskey. It would seem that his kidnappers weren't above looting. He knocked back the spirits with a quick motion. He had to make some sort of plans.
The young man had seated himself again and was looking in compassion at the captive.
Dunninger said, "Are you supposed to be seeing that I make no plans for escape?"
The other seemed embarrassed. "Well, no, sir. It was my idea. It goes back to the old British and French army days of the late 18th century. All officers were gentlemen; they came from good families—aristocrats. If one was to be shot in the morning, a fellow officer was assigned to stay with him in his cell and, well, be with him. Take messages to his family or sweetheart, help him make out his will, if necessary. Talk with him. Possibly read the Bible with him. That sort of thing. Just, well, keep him company."
Dunninger eyed him, even as he poured another stiff drink. "Why'd they pick you?"
The boy looked embarrassed again. "I suppose it's because I know you, sir. We come from the same background. My father was a close friend of yours."
The older man was staring now. "You're Pete Spaulding's boy? Why, I remember you now. Tommy Spaulding. I haven't seen you since you were about ten or eleven. A thin little fellow, always nervous."
"Yes, sir. I remember you, too, Mr. Dunninger. Very clearly."
"Look, call me Harold," the other said. His voice had an edge of excitement now. "Look, Tommy, I've got to get out of here. My wife'll never pay that ransom—never in a million years. We've got to figure some way of getting me out of here."
The young man blinked and shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid that's impossible."
"But look, these people are killers. They're kidnappers. Mad dogs must be shot down on sight."
Tom Spaulding was still shaking his head in rejection. "No, sir, they're idealists. Don't you know whose hands you're in? We're the Nihilists."
"We?"
"Yes, sir. You must realize, we don't have anything against you as an individual. We're opposed to the socioeconomic system you represent. We are going to change it."
The tycoon closed his eyes once more and tried to wrench his mind into thought. He opened them again and said desperately, "See here, boy. That sum your Comrade Ostrander demanded is ridiculous."