"But, Matt, surely you wouldn't...."
"I'd do anything to get this fort sealed in time! Anything! Is that clear?"
Clang! Clang! Clang! Sparks showered from the anvil as Steve Babcock, stripped to the waist and sweating, his bare chest protected by a black apron, hammered the band of iron. Steve, the square-faced, sandy-haired chief engineer, was the only man who had any practical knowledge of blacksmithing.
Matt watched him silently. The chief's shoulders and arm bulged like gnarled tree burls. The hammer came down—clang!—clang!
They had set up the forge in the corridor outside the cells where the twenty-three women were lodged. The chief straightened and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "All right," he said. "Fetch the first one out."
Matt nodded at Captain Bascom. There were three other men in the corridor, silent and uneasy. They were all armed.
They stiffened as Captain Bascom inserted a key in the lock on Margot Drake's cell door.
The door swung inward. "Come along now," said Matt gruffly. "No fuss."
"Go to hell!" said Margot Drake.