They took him out eight hours later, when he was too hoarse to scream and the electric walls had no effect on his sagging body.
It was a different room, this time. A comfortable room with carpets on the floor and pictures on the wall and an over-stuffed sofa of some plastic material along one side.
The man waiting for him was the same young, saintly faced man who had picked him up on the street.
"This is Mr. Ainsworth," Tanner said in a low voice, and nudged him forward.
Mr. Ainsworth looked at him, shocked. "My God, son, haven't they taken care of your cuts?"
Stan just stared at him. Mr. Ainsworth's shocked look faded into one of grim efficiency.
"We'll have to do something about that, son—and right away!" He pressed a button and turned to Tanner. "Take this man to the infirmary immediately, Fred! And don't bring him back here until he's been bathed and issued new clothes!"
He looked back at Stan, his face a study in sympathy and pity. "Believe me, I had no idea...."
It was a reprieve from hell.