She asked, "What now, noble Picaroon?"
"Good girl," Comstock thought, "She's realized that only madmen are forced to become anti-social creatures."
Humming to himself the Picaroon whirled the point of the "sword" under Comstock's chin and said to Pat, "If only you were a little older, child, you and I could make such beautiful music together.... But then there's no reason why I can't keep you here in the Haven till you age properly, now is there?"
"No," Pat agreed hastily, "none at all."
The lunatic whistled cheerily to himself as he cleared a free space on a couch and forced Pat to lie down on it. Then he tied her ankles with a silk scarf, and her wrists with a plastic substance that was known to have a tensile strength equal to that of the metal that this culture used for the framework of their buildings.
Donning a broad brimmed hat, and throwing a cape-like cloth around his wide shoulders, the Picaroon bowed deeply to Pat. Walking to one wall, he pressed his fingers against a projecting button and said, "'Tis not long past midnight ... there's a bad night's work still to be done. Tonight, the Picaroon strikes again!"
He was gone. They were alone. Comstock looked helplessly at Pat. She tried to manufacture a smile but it was no great shakes.
"If," Comstock said, "I can get this thing off my wrists, perhaps we can be out of here before that insane creature returns."