“Several days. We were promised there’d be no after-effects. I’m glad to see it’s true.”
Partly to gain time, partly to test his own reactions, Stormgren swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was still wearing his night-clothes, but they were badly crumpled and seemed to have gathered considerable dirt. As he moved he felt a slight dizziness — not enough to be unpleasant but sufficient to convince him that he had indeed been drugged.
He turned towards the light.
“Where am I?” he said sharply. “Does Wainwright know about this?”
“Now, don’t get excited,” replied the shadowy figure. “We won’t talk about that sort of thing yet. I guess you’re pretty hungry. Get dressed and come along to dinner.”
The oval of light slipped across the room and for the first time Stormgren had an idea of its dimensions. It was scarcely a room at all, for the walls seemed bare rock, roughly smoothed into shape. He realized that he was underground, possibly at a great depth. And if he had been unconscious for several days, he might be anywhere on Earth.
The torch-light illuminated a pile of clothes draped over a packing-case.
“This should be enough for you,” said the voice from the darkness. “Laundry’s rather a problem here, so we grabbed a couple of your suits and half a dozen shirts.”
“That,” said Stormgren without humour, “was very considerate of you.”
“We’re sorry about the absence of furniture and electric Light. This place is convenient in some ways, but it rather lacks amenities.”