"Can you make a break for it?"
Harry blinked. "I could try. But it won't do any good."
"Well, at least try, Harry. Get here to the Hoffman Center. We'll help you all we can."
"I'll try." Harry's words were hardly audible as he set the receiver down with a trembling hand.
The room was silent. The footsteps had stopped. A wave of panic passed up Harry's spine; he crossed the room, threw open the door, stared up and down the hall, unbelieving.
The hall was empty. He started down toward the stairs at a dead run, and then, too late, saw the faint golden glow of a Parkinson Field across the dingy corridor. He gasped in fear, and screamed out once as he struck it.
And then, for seconds stretching into hours, he heard his scream echoing and re-echoing down long, bitter miles of hollow corridor.
2
George Webber leaned back in the soft chair, turning a quizzical glance toward the younger man across the room. He lit a long black cigar.