I turned to Julia. She had retrieved the prison dress, had slipped into it, and was improvising a catch to hold it together. Her face was white but her eyes were dry. I searched those eyes anxiously. I don't know why I should have been relieved to find understanding rather than anger in them, but I was relieved—more relieved than I would have cared to admit.
"Can you pilot a 'copter?" I asked.
She nodded. "I've been piloting them since I was twelve."
"There's a 'copter port on the roof. If we can reach it, we've got a chance. I don't know where we'll go, but we'll go somewhere—"
"We'll go to Mars, Roger. If you're willing." She had finished repairing her dress and stood calm and poised before me.
"This is no time for jokes," I said.
"And I'm not joking. There's a ramp not far from here that will take us to the roof. Come on, Roger!"
We peered up and down the corridor. It was empty. I followed Julia down the grim passage. In the distance, the arena entrance was bright with afternoon sunlight. At the first intersection, she turned right. The new passage was narrow, dimly lighted. At its far end a ponderous stone door opened reluctantly to the pressure of our shoulders and we found ourselves at the base of a sharply slanting ramp.
"You seem to know this place like a book," I said. "Were you ever in the cell block before?"
She nodded. "I visited my mother often before she was stoned."