"I'm just projecting, as you once said. I should have done it sooner." They had him, Channing knew. The three men had spread out about the room, a swift, athletic strength in their every motion. The Denebian barred the door, balanced forward on heavy-thewed legs, the tail unencumbered by weight and ready to lash out.
Abruptly, Channing leaped for the telio. The largest of the three big men let him reach it, then slammed the edge of his hand down as Channing clawed for the receiver. Channing nursed a numb wrist and stared hopefully at his one remaining avenue of escape. The Denebian twitched his tail, making thumping noises on the floor.
Channing launched himself at the door, but the Denebian pivoted and brought his tail around in a rising arc. Channing met it head-first and collapsed on the floor.
It took some time for Channing to realize that he was in a trunk or box of some kind. The darkness was absolute. He was so stiff he wondered with a growing sense of horror if he had been embalmed. He seemed to be sitting upright, head thrust forward and down, knees drawn up. Only his arms had comparative freedom. Since there was absolute darkness all around him, he wondered how they managed to bring fresh air into his box. Unless it were dark outside, too. Unless they didn't try.
He tried to rock forward experimentally and found that he could not. His feet were wedged tightly, his back was against a wall. He could only lift his arms half overhead, at which point his groping hands encountered an unyielding surface.
The inside of the box, which could barely accommodate Channing, was hot—hot as a copter left too long in the summer sun, its windows shut. He was acutely conscious of the sweat streaming down his face, drenching his clothing, burning his eyes. His head ached and he felt weak. He needed salt. He was trembling and nauseous from lack of it.
He lifted his arms again and struck the surface above his head with his knuckles. He struck it again. The noise sounded like sudden, angry thunder in his ears, but the blows had been feeble and he did not believe the sound carried very far. In the first few moments he rapped with his knuckles continually, until he could hardly hold his hands over his head. After that he paced the blows and sweated and thought.
Was this tomorrow? Had Nick done his job on schedule? A fat lot of good it would do if Channing remained where he was. He was in no position to make book, but the baggage compartment of a spaceship seemed a good bet. Outward bound, said spaceship, with a slowly suffocating Channing to be disposed of at someone's leisure. The second Channing was just brazen enough to pull it off. Since Channing had disappeared utterly, it would be assumed he was the copy and had gone to collect whatever reward copies collect after they no longer are wanted.
His raw knuckles brought no response, but after a time he found he could rock the box from side to side by bracing his elbows against its sides and shifting his weight first in one direction, then the other. Rocking intervals became longer as the box leaned further, first to left then to right. In what seemed a short time, Channing was exhausted. It was too warm, too wet, too stuffy. It was utterly, completely, despairingly useless. If he could have stretched out in quiet repose with a cool breeze wafting him, he might have given up at that point. Instead, he summoned all his remaining energy and channeled it in a final lunging effort.