"In front of the Materials Section. That's right through Number Eighteen, except that you can't go through the hill, of course. And you can't go there, anyway. You don't have a Series Three Special Pass. Anyhow, give me my map back. Don't bother me, you Fascist. All you new people are the same." He lurched and reached for the map.
Dugan chopped his hand against the side of Hundeshausen's neck and knocked him unconscious. He put the German back to bed.
Then he unpacked the groceries which he had stuffed into the leather jacket. He tucked his blouse inside his belt and shoved the papers underneath it, up against his chest. Then, with great effort, he got the jacket halfbuttoned over the swollen blouse and rammed the foodstuff in by main force. He picked up the Russian's clothes, which he had worn from the other room. He crept down the corridor, gun in hand. He held it by the barrel. It was a lot quieter to kill that way, if he had to. He met no one.
In the shower room he threw the Russian's clothes on the floor and stepped back to the corridor and out to the tunnel mouth. A man came in. Dugan shrank aside and the man started to pass. Then the stranger made a mistake. He stopped and turned to look at Dugan more carefully. Dugan smashed the gun against the man's jaw and he crumpled.
Dugan saw that the man fell limply and silently. Dugan did not have time to do more than drag the body across the walk, over beyond the edge of darkness. He almost fell down himself in making the effort.
He raced up the steps, scooped under the roots of the bush for his miniature-tool kit which he had left on the way in.
The kit included a single syrette for an emergency injection. It was a strange compound, made up according to the audacious and rather dangerous standards of prewar Japanese pharmacy. Dugan had tried it only once before. It had given him far more awakeness and strength than he could possibly use, and had left him feeling keyed up and restless for days thereafter. But this time he had no hesitation.
He broke the end of the protective plastic rod, found a vein in his wrist, jabbed, thrust home.
Even as he administered the medicine to himself, he felt another wave of the intolerable fatigue and nausea sweeping over him. He tried to say to himself, "Major Dugan, you're not a young man." But there was no time here, no time now, for reconsideration. He reeled down the steps like a drunken man, blind with fatigue and dizzy with the initial impact of the stimulating drugs.
The reeling probably saved his life.