"Martha's staked out a reactor-driven patrol speedboat at a wharf. One guard aboard. She—watched it in operation and I have some small-boat time. I really think we can grab it. If we get a good head-start, they don't have anything based here that'll catch up with it. If we get a break on the weather, their planes won't be able to pick us up."
Lee Falcaro stood up, dashing tears from her eyes. "Then let's go," she said evenly.
"How's the C.Q.—that man downstairs, Martha?"
"Still sleepin'. The way's as clear now as it'll ever be."
They closed the door behind them and Charles worked the lock. The Charge of Quarters looked as though he couldn't be roused by anything less than an earthquake as they passed—but Martha stumbled on one of the rotting steps after they were outside the building.
"Patrick and Bridget rot my clumsy feet off!" she whispered. "He's awake."
"Under the porch," Charles said. They crawled into the dank space between porch floor and ground. Martha kept up a scarcely-audible volleyfire of maledictions aimed at herself.
When they stopped abruptly Charles knew it was bad.
Martha held up her hand for silence, and Charles imagined in the dark that he could see the strained and eerie look of her face. After a pause she whispered: "He's using the—what do you call it? You talk and somebody hears you far away? A prowler he says to them. A wild man from the woods. The bitches bastard must have seen you in your handsome suit of skin and dirt, Charles. Oh, we're for it! May my toe that stumbled grow the size of a boulder! May my cursed eyes that didn't see the step fall out!"
They huddled down in the darkness and Charles took Lee Falcaro's hand reassuringly. It was cold. A moment later his other hand was taken, with grim possessiveness, by the child.