Comstock looked around him wildly. Life had become much more sweet to him in the last few days and he didn't intend to give it up without a battle.
Bowdler said, "If I could only spirit you all away to safety...."
That was when the door opened. A uniformed emissary of the Fathers, his regalia frightening in its black severity, came through the doorway. He was to the left of Comstock.
He barked, "Follow me." Then, sure in the arrogance of power, he turned his back on Comstock and the others and began to walk back towards the door. It was obvious that the thought that they might not follow him had not even crossed his mind.
Grundy made a signalling motion to Comstock, a chopping gesture with the side of his hand that puzzled Comstock mightily. Seeing that Comstock was baffled, Grundy brought the edge of his hand down in the same chopping motion on Helen's neck. Then he pointed at the black garbed man who was leading the way into ... death....
Once the idea penetrated Comstock's considerably bemuddled mind he sprang into action as though he had been trained in violence all his life. Leaping closer to the emissary he whacked the edge of his hand down on the nape of the man's neck.
As he did so, Grundy and Bowdler ran to join him. They caught the man before he hit the ground. Comstock stood stock still, and looked at his hand in some wonder. The idea! His hand had struck down a member of the inner circle of the Fathers' Right Arms! Incredible!
As though the whole thing had long ago been rehearsed in its entirety, Helen pushed the door closed, hiding completely what had just happened.
All the while that Comstock stood and gloried in his own daring, the others were busy ripping the uniform from the unconscious man's body.
Bowdler was grunting from the effort, his big beefy face almost vermillion with strain. He had yanked off the guard's trousers and was now holding them up in front of Grundy, as if estimating how they would fit.