Douglas wasn’t dead. His neck was dislocated, not broken, but he was in serious condition. Kennon was still bending over Douglas wondering how to call for help when three guards burst through the door, faces grim, weapons at the ready.
“What’s going on here?” the leader demanded. “The board showed an open door down here.” He saw the body—“Mr. Douglas!” he gasped. “The commandant will have to know about this!” He took a communicator from his waist belt and spoke rapidly into it. “Arleson in stud cell block,” he said. “Attempted escape. One casualty—Douglas Alexander—yes, that’s right. No—he’s not dead. Send a litter and bearers. Inform the commandant. I am making investigation on the spot. Out.” He turned to look coldly at Kennon.
“Who are you—and what happened here?” he asked.
Kennon told him.
“You mean you took George!” Arleson said.
“Look in his cell if you don’t believe me.”
The soldier looked and then turned hack to Kennon. There was awed respect in his hard brown eyes. “You did that!—to him! Man, you’re a fighter,” he said in an unbelieving voice.
A stretcher detail manned by two sober-faced Lani females came in, loaded Douglas’s body on the stretcher, and silently bore it away.
“Douglas was a fool,” Arleson said. “He knew we never handle this kind without maximum restraint. I wonder why he did it?”
“I couldn’t say. He told me that gas and shackles would hold him.”