Each cell had a hard, narrow bunk, and the barest necessary facilities for a single occupant.
One guard was always on watch, pacing endlessly around the block of cells.
John Star, locked in alone, threw himself hopelessly on the bunk.
His heart was set on escape. For the Legion, under Adam Ulnar, would get no orders to attempt the rescue of Aladoree.
The Green Hall, he realized bitterly, wouldn’t even be informed that AKKA was lost.
But how escape? How leave the locked cell?
How evade the sentry outside—who carried only a club, lest some prisoner snatch his weapon?
How pass the triple doors, with guards between?
How get through the endless, labyrinthine corridors of the Purple Hall, a veritable fortress?
How finally get away from the tiny planet, which was virtually a private empire of Adam Ulnar, policed by his loyal retainers?
How accomplish the sheer impossible?
He heard a wheedling voice from the next cell:
“Ah, have you no heart, man?
We’ve been locked in this evil place a blessed time, on bread and water, or precious little more.
Is your heart of stone, man?
Surely you can bring us something more for supper. Just an extra morsel, to edge our appetite for the regular prison fare. A thick steak with mushroom sauce, say; and a hot mince pie for each one of us.
Just to give us an appetite.”
“An appetite, you bag of tallow?” retorted the sentry, good-naturedly, walking past.
“You eat more now than seven men.”
“Of course I eat,” came the whining plaint. “What else can a man do, a devoted old soldier of the Legion, rotting in this black dungeon, accused of murder and betrayal of duty and life knows what other crimes he didn’t do?
“Ah, come, man, and bring me a bottle of wine.
Just one blessed bottle.
It’ll bring a bit of warmth into a poor old soldier, against the cold of these iron walls.
It’ll help me forget the court-martial that’s coming, and the lethal chamber beyond it—life knows they mean to kill the three of us!
“How can you be so heartless, man?
How can you refuse one little drop of happiness to a man already doomed and as good as dead?
Come, for life’s sake!
Ah, just one bottle, man, for poor, starved, beaten, condemned old Giles Habibula———”
“Enough!
Keep quiet!
I bring you all I can.
Six bottles, you’ve already had today!
No more, the warden said.
At that, I never knew such generosity!
It’s only by the special order of the Commander himself that you get a drop.
And no more talking, now! That’s regulations.”
John Star was glad to hear again of his companions, though it was no good news that they were waiting trial.
Adam Ulnar would be ruthless with these loyal men, whose real crime was only the knowledge of his treason.
He still lay hopeless on the narrow cot, when a low, cautious tapping on the metal partition by his head abruptly recalled him from his apathy of despair.
For the muted rapping formed letters, hi the Legion code:
“W-H-O?”
Quickly, cautiously, he replied:
“J U-L-N-A-R.”
“J K-A-L-A-M.”
He waited for the sentry to pass again, and tapped:
“E-S-C-A-P-E?”
“C-H-A-N-C-E.”
“H-O-W?”
“G-U-A R-D-S C-L-U-B.”
For the most of a day and a night John Star watched that club, as it passed at regular intervals outside the bars.