“Walk to that first building on your right.”
Simon walked, with the hard bluntness in his back all the time. He was steered to a door, and told to open it and go in. When he had taken three or four steps into blackness, a switch clicked behind him and a dim bare bulb lit up over his head. He saw that he was in a corner of some sort of ore mill, but he didn’t know enough about it to identify any of the machines that loomed away beyond the limits of the little patch of light where he stood.
The gun muzzle ceased pressing against him for the first time.
“Okay, buddy,” said the voice. “You can turn around now.”
Simon turned.
He saw two men, both in dirty blue overalls. One, who was unmistakably the owner of the Voice, was big and square, very broad-shouldered and a little paunchy. He carried a submachine gun. He had a close-cropped sandy head and small crinkly eyes and a heavy stubbly chin. The other, who held the Saint’s Magnum, was smaller and thinner. He had brown hair and big black eyes with a moist flat look to them, and a very pale narrow face gashed with a pink slit of a mouth.
The big man studied Simon’s face with satisfaction.
“It’s him,” he announced to his companion. “I thought so.”
“Well, I’m surprised,” said the Saint reprovingly. “If you were expecting me I should think you’d have hung out flags and ordered a brass band.”
The big man ignored this.