“I don’t give a damn what he did; it stinks to see a man tied down like that.”

“It doesn’t bother him. He can’t feel a thing, Charles. You know that.”

They chatted a while longer, using a lot of technical medical terms unfamiliar to Eric. Then they went away.

He wondered what time it was. Dull light came in through the barred windows. After a while he opened one eye slightly.

They were coming for him tonight. Who was? A team from North America. That would include Tarragon or his deputies. They would take him out of this place and back to Nueva York, and then what? He didn’t know and he couldn’t imagine and he didn’t want to find out, any more than he could allow them to put an ocean between him and Lisa again.

How had they traced him? Had someone at the airport recognized him from a description given by the clerk he’d made use of? He remembered his plane landing, the pilot’s aggravated voice announcing the short delay, the woman returning with her daughter from the restroom who suddenly keeled over in the middle of the aisle for no reason at all. Then running, running desperately for the rear exit, never smelling anything, not sensing anything as he’d reached for the handle. Whatever they’d employed had been fast, odorless, and powerful.

Then waking up in This Place. Wherever that might be. For all he could tell he might be on the Continent instead of in London. But the accents around him were mostly English.

He had to get out somehow. First get away, then find Lisa. The bars on the windows were more informative than obstructive. Some kind of prison hospital, most likely.

He tried to sit up, found he could move only a little. More than strong straps held him immobile. His muscles refused to obey the commands of his mind. Forcing himself to relax, he considered the problem. He’d never been drugged before and found the sensation interesting. Feet and hands were numb, the rest of him only slightly less inoperative.

Strange what the brain concocts when suspended halfway between wakefulness and death. Imagine how it would be to stand upright again, to walk. His mind was clear and his vision no longer blurred. Imagine how things would have to change for walking to become possible.

First his body would have to purge itself of whatever chemicals they’d shoved into his bloodstream. It wouldn’t be enough to run them through the kidneys. The molecules would have to be broken down, the bonds destroyed. Too complex a job for white blood cells. Something more complex and yet more subtle was required.

Even as he lay motionless considering the problem, be could feel himself growing stronger, could sense more and more muscle fibers twitching in response to his desires. The voices around him became understandable. The accents were English. Still somewhere in Britain, then. Maybe no longer in London, but somewhere below old Hadrian’s Wall. That was vastly encouraging.

Lying on the bed with his eyes shut tight, he knew only that he was becoming himself again. There was no conscious awareness of the breakdown of complex narcotics within his body. Once he had to take care to lie especially still when some doctor appeared.

He felt something prick his right arm and sensed the injection. His mind fluttered and thoughts wavered for a moment while he briefly reexperienced the near-forgotten sensation of swimming in a dark blue lake.

But he was expecting it this time and did not lapse into dreams. The doctor was joined by two others. It required a tremendous effort not to open his eyes for a look at his captors.

“Is this the one?” A new voice, American accented.

“That’s him.” The female physician who visited him earlier. How much earlier? He didn’t know.

“Doesn’t look threatening.”

“That’s what we thought when they wheeled him in.”

A faint breeze cooled his nostrils, perhaps the result of someone’s passing a hand over his face.

“Now, some of these chaps in here,” Charles said, “I could understand all this nonsense. Take MacReadie down there. Third bed, left side of the aisle. A double murderer, and he’s neither sedated nor strapped down. If this one’s psychotic he doesn’t belong in here. He belongs over in Block C, in the mental ward.”

“From what I’ve been told, this one’s not psychotic,” said the American voice. “Just damn dangerous.”

“Someone certainly thinks so,” said the woman doctor. “I’ll be glad to be rid of him.”

“I understand. If he starts giving you trouble …

“A laugh from Charles, derisive rather than amused. “Not bloody likely. He’s saturated.”

“Nevertheless, the reports I’ve received are full of the most dire warnings. If anything untoward occurs, you must get in touch with me immediately.”

“I know,” said the woman. “Your people are in the Newlin Building, aren’t they?”

In his excitement Eric was positive he jumped a little, sure he’d given away his awareness. But they must not have been watching him at that moment. Or else they simply didn’t notice. He tried to still the beating of his heart, certain the sudden rush would draw their attention.

“Right, well, I’m off,” said the American.

“So are we,” said Charles. “Look, couldn’t you tell us what this chap’s wanted for?”

“Sorry.” The American was pleasant but unyielding. “I’m not authorized.”

“Must be something extraordinary,” Charles muttered.

“Must be,” admitted the American in neutral tones.

Eric listened to their conversation until they’d wandered beyond range of his hearing. Electric before his eyes were the words Newlin Building. Now he had a destination, a place to begin. And something else: that newcomer’s voice. He’d memorized it as surely as he’d memorized the name of the building. If he heard it in a crowded store, he’d be able to pick it out of a mob. That voice could put him on Lisa’s trail.

He hesitated. The man hadn’t indicated where this Newlin Building was located. It might be in London. It might also be in Glasgow, or Manchester, or Portsmouth. But if that were the case, if it wasn’t located in the same city as the hospital, surely the man would have specified its location? He felt better. It had to be in the same county as the hospital.

A destination. It was all he needed.

The chemical factory that was his body continued to cleanse itself. It was amazing how refreshed he felt two hours later. It was as though the events of the past hours, much less the past couple of weeks, had had no cumulative effect on him at all.

He tried an experiment, attempted to raise his left hand. It came up easily, halted only by the strap. The strap was keeping him from his beloved, from Lisa. It was a dirty, inhumane way to treat any human being. He’d been trapped like an animal and now they were treating him like one. He pushed angrily at the strap.

There was a soft spang as the restraint snapped. It should not have snapped. It was fashioned of carbon-fiber mesh padded on the underside so as not to bruise the flesh beneath. It was stronger than steel and it broke as easily as a rubber band. He raised his right arm and the sound was repeated twice, since there was a strap at his elbow as well as at his wrist.

Then he sat up and there were lots of snapping, spanging sounds. He’d waited until the room was empty of medical personnel but he dare not wait too long. The men from the Newlin Building, the men with the nameless faces, were coming for him soon. He smiled. If they would give him just a few minutes, he would save them the trouble of making the trip.

Somewhere in the room someone suddenly murmured loudly, “Cor, would you ’ave a look at that!” He thought it might have been the double murderer with the broken leg. Other voices spoke in stunned whispers, one in a foreign language he didn’t recognize.

Reaching down, he ripped away the rest of the restraints, turned sideways on the bed, and stretched luxuriously. His muscles were on fire.

There was a tall cabinet between every two beds. Opening the one next to his, Eric was delighted to discover that it contained the clothes he’d been wearing on the plane. They were clean and neatly pressed.

He went first for the inside coat pockets. His billfold was there. It contained his identification and credit cards. Undoubtedly the police had made copies for study. His tools were missing.

He slipped off the hospital gown and dressed as quickly as possible. When he was done he took a moment to brush back his dyed hair and adjust his collar. The false moustache had been removed but he didn’t regret the loss. It had itched.

As he started calmly for the door, one of the other inmates grinned at him from his bed. “It ain’t that easy, friend.” He didn’t respond, reached the door.

It was made of metal. There was a small window set at eye level, and it was locked tight. Standing to one side, he waited until the duty nurse entered. As she walked past he slipped through. She didn’t see him, but the guard seated immediately outside did. He eyed the unexpected, neatly dressed man curiously.

“Dr. Williamson,” Eric told him cheerfully, glad they’d shaved his unconscious form.

“Williamson?” said the guard with a frown. “I didn’t admit any Dr. Williamson.”

“Of course you didn’t. The earlier guard did. I’ve been here for some time.”