The hill was only sixty or seventy meters high. Dugan soon reached the crest and started downward. He saw no glow of lights, no sign of walks — nothing but the curious dead blackness of the night, the curious lifeless quiet of the forest. Even wild animals must have been excluded. He hurried a little.
Hurrying was a mistake.
His foot slipped, he fell on his back, and the next thing he knew, he was chuting-the-chute. He had slipped into a narrow gully and was tobogganing downward on pine needles. If he had known where he was going, it would have been pleasant, but Dugan did not like the idea of being pitched into an electrified fence or a lake of radioactive water. Neither awaited him at the bottom. The floor of the gully tipped steeply. Dugan made a last wild, useless grab for a bush to arrest his fall. He missed and landed jarringly on his feet.
He was on a walk. Next to him an astounded soldier, lighted by the dim light from a tunnel entrance, stared at him open-mouthed.
"Where did you come from?" asked the soldier.
"None of your damned business," snapped Dugan, catching his breath. "Give me your name and rank."
"Private Lizunov, Special Sentry, Materials Section."
"Are you an authorized messenger?" asked Dugan sharply.
"I don't know — Captain," said the soldier. "Show me your identification," snarled Dugan.
With a practiced gesture, the soldier reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheaf of assorted cards and tickets. He started to fumble through them, peering at them in the dim light. Dugan authoritatively took them out of the man's hand. Inner Camp. Materials Section. Main Gate. Inner Gate. Rail Gate. Atomsk Motorcycle Permit. Food card. What? thought Dugan, what? what? what? Motorcycle permit? A big golden door began to open in Dugan's imagination. He allowed himself a silent Asiatic chuckle. He wished that his old wartime friends on the Imperial Japanese General Staff could see this!