While their attention was away from him Zarwell had unobtrusively loosened his bonds as much as possible with arm leverage. As the big man drew his chair nearer, he made the hand farthest from him tight and compact and worked it free of the leather loop. He waited.
The big man belched. “You’re supposed to be great stuff in a situation like this,” he said, his smoke-tan face splitting in a grin that revealed large square teeth. “How about giving me a sample?”
“You’re a yellow-livered bastard,” Zarwell told him.
The grin faded from the oily face as the man stood up. He leaned over the cot—and Zarwell’s left hand shot up and locked about his throat, joined almost immediately by the right.
The man’s mouth opened and he tried to yell as he threw himself frantically backward. He clawed at the hands about his neck. When that failed to break the grip he suddenly reversed his weight and drove his fist at Zarwell’s head.
Zarwell pulled the struggling body down against his chest and held it there until all agitated movement ceased. He sat up then, letting the body slide to the floor.
The straps about his thighs came loose with little effort.
THE analyst dabbed at his upper lip with a handkerchief. “The episodes are beginning to tie together,” he said, with an attempt at [p144] nonchalance. “The next couple should do it.”
Zarwell did not answer. His memory seemed on the point of complete return, and he sat quietly, hopefully. However, nothing more came and he returned his attention to his more immediate problem.
Opening a button on his shirt, he pulled back a strip of plastic cloth just below his rib cage and took out a small flat pistol. He held it in the palm of his hand. He knew now why he always carried it.