Sleep had come to me suddenly—deep, exhausted sleep. The annoying sound nagged at the edges of my subconscious for a long time. I became remotely aware of it, a buzzing far off, droning on interminably. Vainly I tried to escape it, to bury myself in the soft, black, velvet cushion of sleep, but the sound penetrated—a thin, distant, persistent plea.
And I woke. It was still night. The same night? Or could I have slept the clock around? I peered at the luminous time and date dials in the wall. It was almost three in the morning. I had slept for less than five hours. Five hours before, I had escaped death. Time enough for a new plan to be laid.
The phone rang again. With a groan of exasperation, I dragged myself out of the bed and groped my way into the living room. Through bleary, heavy-lidded eyes I tried to make out the reception button, hit it on the third jab.
"Hello? Paul? Is that you?"
The image on the telephone screen was still dim. It brightened as I stared in disbelief.
"Laurie! What in God's name are you doing calling me at this hour?"
"Oh, Paul! Thank God!"
She sagged visibly. Even on the black-and-white screen her face showed pale and drawn, with a sharpness I had never seen in it before.
"What is it. What's happened?"
"I've been trying to get you for hours. You've got to help me. You've got to come out here!"