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what went on overhead. For the most part, there was silence, broken only by the sounds of nature and
the slap and thump of pacing feet. I heard a few gobbled conversations, and once an exchange between
a humanoid and a demon:
"It has means of escaping pursuit," the flat voice was saying as I picked it up. "This is the same one
that eluded our units at location totter-pohl."
Angry sounds from a demon.
"That is not my area of surveillance," the first voice said coldly. "My work is among the men."
Another alien tongue-lashing.
"All reports are negative; the instruments indicate nothing "
An excited interruption.
"When the star has set, then. I must call in more units . . ." The voice faded, going away.
"Monitor, it's time for me to start making plans. They're getting restless up above. I'm going to need a
few things; clothes, money, weapons, transportation. Can you help me?"
"State your requirements in detail."
"I need an inconspicuous civilian-type suit, preferably heated. I'll also need underwear, boots, and a
good hand-gun; one of those Borgia Specials Felix gave me would do nicely. About ten thousand cees in
cash some small bills, the rest in hundreds. I want a useful ID and a good map. I don't suppose you
could get me an OE suit and a lift-belt, but a radar-negative car would be very useful a high-speed,
armored job."
"The garments will be ready momentarily. The funds must be facsimile-reproduced from a sample. Those
on hand are of last year's issue and thus invalid. The Borgia Special is unknown; further data required.
You will be given directions to the nearest Ultimax garage, where you may make a selection of helis and
ground effect cars."
I got out my wallet, now nearly flat; I picked out five and ten cee notes and a lone hundred.
"Here are your patterns; I hope you can vary the serial numbers."
"Affirmative. Please supply data on Borgia Special."
"That's a 2mm needler, with a special venom. It's effective on these nonexistent phenomena up above."
"A Browning 2mm will be supplied; the darts will be charged with UG formula nine twenty-three toxin.
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Please place currency samples in slot G on the main console."
I followed instructions. Within half an hour the delivery bin had disgorged a complete wardrobe,
including a warm, sturdy, and conservatively cut suit with a special underarm pocket in which the needler
nestled snugly; my wallet bulged with nicely aged bills. I had a late-model compass-map strapped to my
wrist, a card identifying me as a Treasury man, and a special key tucked in an inner pocket that would
open the door to a concealed Ultimax motor depot near Independence, less than thirty miles away. I was
equipped to leave now as soon as I was strong enough.
More hours passed. At regular intervals, the Station Monitor gave instructions for treatment, keeping
tabs on my condition by means of an array of remote-sensing instruments buried in the walls. My strength
was returning slowly; I had lost a lot of weight, but the diet of nourishing concentrates the station supplied
was replacing some of that, too.
The arm was a marvel of bioprosthetics. The sight of the stark, functional chromalloy radius and ulna still
gave me a strange, unpleasant sensation every time I saw it, but I was learning to use it; as the
nerve-connections healed, I was even developing tactile sensitivity in the fingertips.
When the chronometer on the wall showed that I had been in the underground station for forty-nine
hours, I made another routine inquiry about conditions up above.
"How about it, Monitor?" I called. "Any signs of excavation work going on up there?"
There was a long pause as there was every time I asked questions around the edges of the Forbidden
Topic.
"Negative," the voice said at last.
"They've had time enough now to discover I'm not hiding under the rug in some nearby motel. I wonder
what they're waiting for?"
There was no answer. But then I hadn't really asked a question.
"Make another try to raise one of the other stations," I ordered. I watched the screen as one
equipment-crowded room after another flashed into view. None answered my call.
"What about those other Station Monitors?" I asked. "Can I talk to them?"
"Station Monitors are aspects of the Central Coordinating Monitor," the voice said casually. "All
inquiries may be addressed directly to any local station unit."
"You don't volunteer much, do you?" I inquired rhetorically.
"Negative," the voice replied solemnly.
"Can you get a message out to somebody for me?"
"Affirmative, assuming "
"Skip the assumptions. He's somewhere in Jacksonville, Florida if the demons didn't kill him just to
keep in practice and if he followed my instructions to stay in town. His name's Joel last name
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unknown, even to him. Address unknown. As of a week ago, he was crewman aboard a sub-tanker
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