Woman not of this world....
He shivered involuntarily and the girl misunderstood that. She said urgently,
"I know you're shaken up but you must walk! We must get out of here—come—"
She tugged him toward the open door of the cell. Birrel stumbled through it, with her. His feet would not coordinate, they kept scuffling and tripping as he went down the corridor and up the stair.
There was a guard office at the top of the stair. Two jail guards in uniform sprawled, one in a chair, the other on the floor. They were not dead, for he could see the rise and fall of their chests. But they were gripped by an insensibility like death.
Birrel began to get it. "Holmer can only hold the building blanked for a little longer!" The one outside, the confederate of the girl, had stricken everyone in the prison into a coma. Protected by a shield-device, she had walked right in, unchallenged.
The thought appalled Birrel. Connor and Paley and their men were in this building, waiting to follow Birrel and whoever contacted him. And Connor and Paley and the others must right now be as unconscious as these guards. Their whole plan was shattered.
"Hurry, Rett!" She was urging him almost fiercely forward, out of the office and into a main hall.
They came to a barred door, now swinging open. How had she opened the doors, Birrel wondered? But a science that could throw this deathlike trance on a building full of men would make short work of locks.
The girl quickened her pace, urging him along faster. In a moment they came out into the darkness of the summer night, in a parking-court with a half-dozen official cars in it. The high gate to the street was closed. Just inside it was a long sedan whose motor purred softly. She ran toward it, her strong fingers clutching Birrel's wrist.