I slumped.
Coldly, then, Kruze said, "Did any of you gentlemen hear me mention the warping-chamber? Or am I going to be forced to take this scum back for trial by rocket freighter?"
Wordless, my captors shoved me towards a grav-car. I went without protest, making no effort to resist.
But as I walked, I let the feeling of the street close in upon me. The green-hazed black of the Rizalian night took on new, subtle overtones. Fragment by fragment, sense by sense, it blended and became one with the mass of tight-integrated information poured into my brain by the psychostructor.
This street—it would be AX7. And that meant the cross-street ahead was MR2.
Which was interesting, because MR2 was also a pneumotube route, complete with sewer-like conduits beneath the paving and access shafts at every corner.
So, if I could by some chance reach that intersection, and duck from sight behind the building....
How far was it? Fifty feet? Sixty?
The first of my captors reached the grav-car. Fumbling, he got out his lock-light.
The rest of us paused. Again, narrow-eyed, I measured the distance to the corner.