"The best test of good relations between men is an instinctive liking," Siggen said. "I feel we have this, plus a common purpose."
"I'll think it over," Ostby replied. "In the meantime I'll expect results tomorrow."
Ostby lay flat on his stomach with his head facing the window in front of him. The window was set flush with the floor and he had a good view of the Stalls across the street.
The Stalls was a squat, three-story building, with a basement and a sub-basement. The upper three stories were occupied by government offices. The basement housed the heating equipment and was used as a storage space. But it was the sub-basement that gave the place its name. Here the slaves were kept until sold.
The deserted office room in which Ostby lay had been closed for many months, and it was hot inside, and close. The sun shining through the windows added to the heat, and the film of moisture that bathed his body had long since developed small rivulets that collected in sodden patches of his clothing.
"How much longer will it be, Groves?" Ostby asked.
"There's no way of knowing." The young man who sat with his back resting against the wall had wilted under the heat and crawled over out of the sunlight. "As soon as it's safe," he said. "Let me know if you see anyone coming out."
"I thought Siggen had fixed it so we could get in without any trouble?"
"He bribed the guards," Groves replied. "But you saw those two men go in. I recognized one of them as Boorrls of the secret police. They're liable to turn up any place, any time. We'd be sticking our necks out to go in while they're there."