He stopped as he reached the officer who was now outside the cell and fuming with temper. Striking a modest pose, he said, “Look-September Morn.”
It meant nothing to the other who flourished the loop, did a little dance of rage and yelled, “What is this thing?”
“My property,” declared Leeming with naked dignity.
“You are not entitled to possess it. As a prisoner of war you are not allowed to have anything.”
“Who says so?”
“I say so ” informed the fairy somewhat violently.
“Who’re you?” asked Leeming, showing no more than academic interest.
“By the Great Blue Sun, I’ll show you who I am! Guards, take him inside and —”
“You’re not the boss;” interrupted Leeming, impressively cocksure. “The Commandant is the boss here. I say so and he says so. If you want to dispute it, let’s go ask him.”
The guards hesitated, assumed expressions of chronic uncertainty. They were unanimous in passing the buck to the officer. That worthy was taken aback. Staring incredulously at the prisoner, he became wary.
Are you asserting that the Commandant has given permission for you to have this object?”
“I’m telling you that he hasn’t refused permission. Also that it is, not for you to give or refuse it. You roll in your own hog-pen and don’t try usurp the position of your betters.”
“Hog-pen? What is that?”
“You wouldn’t know.”
“I shall consult the Commandant about this.” Deflated and unsure of himself, the officer turned to the guards.
“Put him back in his cell and give him his breakfast as usual.
“How about returning my property, enk?” Leeming prompted.
“Not until I have seen the Commandant.”
They hustled him into the cell. He got dressed. Breakfast came, the inevitable bowl of slop. He cussed the guards for not making it bacon and eggs. That was deliberate and of malice aforethought. A display of self assurance and some aggressiveness was necessary to push the game along.
For some reason the tutor did not appear so he spent the morning furbishing his fluency with the aid of the books. At mid-day they let him into the yard and he could detect no evidence of a special watch being kept upon him while he mingled with the crowd.
The Rigellian whispered, “I got the opportunity to take another coil of wire. So I grabbed it in case you wanted more.” He slipped it across, saw it vanish into a pocket “That’s all I intend to steal. Don’t ask me again. One can’t tempt fate too often.”
“What’s the matter? Is it getting risky? Are they suspicious of you?”
“Everything is all right so far.” He glanced cautiously; around. “If some of the other prisoners learn that I’m pinching wire they’ll start taking it too. They’ll snatch it in the hope of discovering what I intend to do with it, that they can use it for the same purpose. Two years in prison is two years of education in unmitigated selfishness. Everybody is always on the watch for some advantage, real or imaginary, that he can grab off somebody else. This lousy life brings out the worst in us as well as the best.”
“A couple of small coils will never be missed,” the other went on. “But once the rush starts the stuff will evaporate in wholesale quantities. And that’s when all hell will break loose. I daren’t take the chance of creating a general ruckus.”
“Meaning you fellows can’t afford to risk a detailed search right now?” suggested Leeming pointedly.
The Rigellian shied like a frightened horse. “I didn’t say that.”
“I can put two and two together as expertly as anyone else.” Leeming favoured him with a reassuring wink. “I can also keep my mouth shut.”
He watched the other mooch away. Then he sought around the yard for more pieces of wood but failed to find any. Oh, well, no matter. At a pinch he could do without. Come to that, he’d darned well have to do without.
The afternoon was given over to linguistic studies on which he was able to concentrate without interruption. That was one advantage of being in the clink, perhaps the only one. A fellow could educate himself. When the light became too poor and the first pale stars showed through the barred opening in the wall he kicked the door until the sound of it thundered all over the block.
EIGHT
Feet came running and the spyhole opened. It was Marsin again.
“So it’s you, faplap,” greeted Leeming. He let go a snort of contempt. “You had to blab, of course. You had to curry favour by reporting me to the officer.” He drew himself up to full height. “Well, I am sorry for you. I’d fifty times rather be me than you.”
“Sorry for me?” Marsin registered confusion. “Why?”
“Because you are going to suffer.”
“I am?”
“Yes, you! Not immediately, if that is any consolation. First of all it is necessary for you to undergo the normal period of horrid anticipation. But eventually you are going to suffer. I don’t expect you to believe me. All you need do is wait and see.”
“It was my duty,” explained Marsin semi-apologetically.
“That fact will be considered in mitigation,” Leeming assured, “and your agonies will be modified in due proportion.”
“I don’t understand,” complained Marsin, developing a node of worry somewhere within the solid bone.
“You will-some dire day. So also will those stinking faplaps who beat me up in the yard. You can inform them from me that their quota of pain is being arranged.”
“I am not supposed to talk to you,” said Marsin, dimly perceiving that the longer he stood by the spyhole the bigger the fix he got into. “I shall have to go.”
“All right. But I want something.”
“What is it?”
“I want my bopamagilvie-that thing the officer took away.”
“You cannot have it unless the Commandant gives permission. He is absent today and will not return before tomorrow morning.”
“That’s no use. I want it now.”
“You cannot have it now.”
“Forget it ” Leeming gave an airy wave of his hand. “I’II create another one.”
“It is forbidden,” reminded Marsin very feebly.
“Ha-ha!” said Leeming.
After darkness had grown complete he got the wire from under the bench and manufactured a second whatzit to all intents identical with the first one. Twice he was interrupted but not caught.
That job finished, he upended the bench and climbed it. Taking the newly received coil of wire from his pocket, he tied one end tightly around the middle bar and hung the coil outside the window-gap. With spit and dust he camouflaged the bright tin surface of the one visible strand, made sure that it could not be seen at farther than nose-tip distance. He slid down, replaced the bench. The window-gap was so high in the wall that all of its ledge and the bottom three inches of its bars were invisible from below. Going to the door he listened and at the right time called, “Are you there?”
When the light came on and the spyhole had opened he got the instinctive feeling that a bunch of them were clustered outside the door, also that the eye in the hole was not Marsin’s.
Ignoring everything else, he rotated the loop slowly and carefully, meanwhile calling, “Are you there? Are you there?” After traversing about forty degrees he paused, gave his voice a tone of intense satisfaction and exclaimed, “So you are there at last! Why don’t you keep within easy reach so that we can talk without me having to summon you through a loop?”
Going silent, he put on the expression of one who listens intently. The eye in the spyhole widened, got shoved away, was replaced by another.