"Where are we, anyway?" asked the Negro boy, who looked about nineteen, a tall, well-built youth with beautiful hands. "How'd they get us here? And what was that thing that took the Mex?"
"It doesn't matter where we are," snapped the woman.
"Yes, it does, ma'am," said the youth. "We got to know how they brought us here before we can escape."
"The hell we do," said the blond man. "We can't guess our location until we get out. I think you're right about the door," he told Summersby. "There isn't any lock to it you could reach from inside. The mechanism for sliding and locking must be inside the wall itself. Nothing short of a torch will get through to it." He came over to Summersby. "We'll have to gimmick it next time it opens."
"With what?" asked the woman's husband.
"Something small, so it won't be noticed."
"Your briefcase?" suggested the husband, who had a hard New England twang.
"No, chum," said the blond man, "not my briefcase."
"Hey, look," said the Negro. "What happened, anyway? I remember the coaster hitting the dip and then nothing, no wind or motion, until I woke up here. And it's two days later."
"I lost consciousness at the same place," said the New Englander.