Kelvin Martin didn't move for seconds, then he struggled into a sitting position. He fought the ropes with a silent doggedness that sent the hot blood pounding turgidly at his temples. His mouth gaped, as he strained and twisted futilely, and the panic in his eyes was a terrible force.
Then he sagged limply, realizing that the ropes were too well-knotted for him to release himself unaided.
"God!" he prayed.
He drew his legs beneath him, shoved himself back until his shoulders touched a side wall. Sitting there, he searched the room with feverish eyes for any object with a cutting edge. His heart sank, when he saw the bare sterility of the room. Without windows, without tools or furniture, there was not a thing in the room that could be broken or used to sever the cutting ropes at his wrists.
Kelvin Martin sobbed deep in his throat, glanced at the door, remembering how Vance had locked it and pocketed the key.
He remembered the cigar lighter in his pocket, tried to fumble it out, with the intention of burning his bonds. Dull horror pounded at his mind when he realized that his hands were completely numb, without the power of following the dictates of his mind.
He had no way of visualizing how long the treacherous Vance would be gone, no way of knowing whether the man would return victorious. But clear reasoning told him that the monstrous people of the other world would slay Vance, then use Martin's machine as the doorway through which to pass their conquering hordes. Too, the machine would serve as the model for more carriers.
He straightened at the thought, memory struggling for expression in his mind.
He followed the lines of the walls, leaning against them for support, edging forward with agonizing slowness by jumping his tied feet. Perspiration dotted his white face, and his thinning hair lay tight on his small head, but slowly the smile broadened on his lips.