Sadie hurled herself into the crowd, as a patrolman looked up, with gun raised.
"That was close," gasped the girl. "The Shots certainly have their guard up these days." She seized Frank's hand and raced with him along a narrow way which was slippery with garbage and rank with stenches. "Here we are. Sharp right.... Now left.... Last time I came through here I had a broken arm. But you should have seen the Concentrator who gave it to me.... Wup! This is the place." She dived into a tumbledown liquor store.
"Sadie Thompson," she snapped at the blinking proprietor; "we're tailed."
The fellow jerked a thumb toward a curtain at the back of the shop.
They ducked behind the cloth, plunged down a flight of stairs and landed, plop, in a sewer.
Wading against a flood of filth, beating off tarks which squeaked and slavered at them, they advanced blindly. A quarter of a mile "up-stream" they found a door marked by a phosphorescent glow.
They dragged themselves through it and into an empty chamber which bore the word, Baths, on an inner door.
After scrubbing some of the sewage off each other and changing to clean overalls, which they found in a locker, Sadie pressed a concealed button in a series of dots and dashes.
A door opened in the wall, revealing a corridor hewn out of rock. They went through it until they reached a room occupied by a man with one arm and a hideously disfigured face.