"I don't see any shackles on you," I remarked.
"Just because you can't see them," he growled, "doesn't mean they aren't there. Marshal Thompson has the only telephone in the village. He has politely refused to let me use it. I'm a suspicious and undesirable character; he's under no obligation to give me telephone privileges, he says. Haskel has the Post Office concession—the Telefax outfit behind the money box over there. He takes my letters but I never see him send them off. And I never get a reply."
"Unfriendly of them," I said conservatively. "But how can they stop you from packing your dental floss and cutting out?"
"Haskel has the only motor vehicle in town—a half-ton pick-up, a minuscule contrivance less than the size of a passenger car. He makes about one trip a week down into the city for supplies and package mail. He's been the only one in or out of Granite City for five months."
It seemed incredible—more than that, unlikely, to me. "How about the granite itself? How do they ship it out?"
"It's an artificial demand product, like diamonds," Professor Parnell said. "They stockpile it and once a year the executive offices for the company back in Nashville runs in a portable monorail railroad up the side of the mountain to take it out. That won't be for another four months, as nearly as I can find out. I may not last that long."
"How are you living?" I asked. "If they won't take your checks—"
"I do odd jobs for people. They feed me, give me a little money sometimes."
"I can see why you want to ride out with me," I said. "Haven't you ever thought of just walking out?"
"Fifty miles down a steep mountain road? I'm an old man, Mr. Madison, and I've gotten even older since I came to Granite City."