"You won't kill me as I run? I know that thing can kill over long distances—"
"Don't give me any ideas," Eric said, but he felt a little sick as Larkin ran, whimpering, back toward the hall. This man was their ruler, their leader.
He found the door, activated its mechanism, waited impatiently while he heard the sounds of pursuit. Something clanged against the door, and again. They were throwing things. Eric ducked, felt pain stab at his shoulder.
He could see their faces in the corridor when the door began to slide clear. He slipped in, punched the levers that would close it again, saw a hand and a leg come through the crack, heard a scream. The limbs withdrew, and Eric watched grimly as it slid all the way shut.
Lazaruses Eight, Nine, and Ten, he thought, as he went to the three remaining tubs. For a moment he gazed down through the pinkish liquid at the men curled up, sleeping their long sleep.
He shook the tubs gently. All it would take was that—direct motion. Once that had started the cycle, each sleeper's hypothalamus took over, twenty-five, fifty, and seventy-five years ahead of schedule. He watched them twitch, shiver, slowly uncurl, watched the vapors rising from their tubs. He had plenty of time.
In a week, he helped them from their tubs. They were ready to listen—smiling baby-faced Chambers, gaunt Striker, rotund Richardson.
He explained, slowly. He told them everything.
"My God," Striker said when he had finished.
"Be thankful you could get back here, lad," Richardson told him. "What do we do now?"