"Anyway, the medic—"
"Never mind the medic. What's Lafon doing?"
"Lafon? The Negro?" Sue-Ann Bradley frowned. "I didn't know his name. He started the whole thing, the way it sounds. They're waiting for the mob down in the yard to break out and then they're going to make a break—"
"Wait a minute," growled O'Leary. His head was beginning to clear. "What about you? Are you in on this?"
She hung between laughter and tears. Finally: "Do I look as if I am?"
O'Leary took stock. Somehow, somewhere, the girl had got a length of metal pipe—from the plumbing, maybe. She was holding it in one hand, supporting him with the other. There were two other guards in the cell, both out cold—one from O'Leary's squad, the other, O'Leary guessed, a desk guard who had been on duty when the trouble started.
"I wouldn't let them in," she said wildly. "I told them they'd have to kill me before they could touch that guard."
O'Leary said suspiciously: "You belonged to that Double-A-C, didn't you? You were pretty anxious to get in the Greensleeves, disobeying Auntie Mathias's orders. Are you sure you didn't know this was going to—"
It was too much. She dropped the pipe, buried her head in her hands. He couldn't tell if she laughed or wept, but he could tell that it hadn't been like that at all.
"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly, and touched her helplessly on the shoulder.