Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1959 by The Dark Destroyers (v1.1) Page A

them Owners." A harsh, bitter flash of teeth. "They own us, you see.
What's your name, may I ask?"
                 "Mark
Darragh."
                "I'm Orrin Lyle." He held
out a hand, long but slimmer than Darragh's. "And this is Brenda
Thompson."
                 "He
means me," said the girl beside Darragh. "But aren't you still shaky
on your legs?"
                 Darragh
realized that he was, and nodded.
                "Let's take him to my place,
Orrin," she said.
                "Wait a second," spoke up
Darragh suddenly. "Excuse me if things take a while to sink in, but they
get there. You're prisoners, and you were brought here alive. Why don't you
fight your way out again?"
                 There
was silence at that, and more stares; somewhat abashed stares, as though
Darragh had said something embarrassing.
                 "You're
not in shape to fight your way out just now," said the man called Orrin
Lyle. "Come with us to Brenda's."
                 The
others made way for Darragh. Orrin Lyle took Darragh's leather-clad arm and
twitched him toward one of the cottages. Brenda Thompson came along at
Darragh's other side. As they walked, Darragh could feel eyes watching them go-
                 "In
here," said Brenda Thompson, opening a door, and Darragh walked through.
                 Inside
the cottage things were tasteful and comfortable. A hand-braided rag rug
covered the concrete floor. There were chairs, old but well kept, a sofa, a shelf
of books. On the walls hung pictures. To Darragh these
pictures looked strange and vivid, masses and arrangements of color.
                 "I
did those," said Brenda Thompson, seeing his interest. “Do you like
them?"
                 "I
don't really know about art," confessed Darragh.
                "But you know what you like,
eh?" Orrin Lyle completed the old cliche. "Sit down,
Mr.—eh—Darragh."
                 He
spoke as though doing the honors in his own home. Darragh, who had been well
brought up, stood where he was with his eyes on the girl. She smiled.
                 "Go
ahead, sit down," she seconded Lyle's invitation. "I'm going to get
us some tea."
                 She
was gone into another room, sure and confident of movement. Lyle dropped into
an armchair, the most comfortable-seeming of all the seats in the room.
Darragh sat down opposite him.
                 Now
he noticed that in the center of the room rose a joist or support, a pole
perhaps four inches square. It seemed to support the ceiling. On the wall
beyond, the rear wall of the room, was a rectangular
stretch of glass, perhaps a mirror.
                Orrin Lyle spoke again: "If I
may be frank, Mr. Darragh, let me caution you about talking escape to the
people here."
                 "Why
not?" demanded Darragh. "Don't they want to escape?"
                 "Ill
put it like this: We have our own plans for escape. Our time's coming."
Lyle leaned forward, an elbow on the arm of the chair. "You see, I'm
pretty much in command here. I'm like the mayor of this community, or you might
call me the captain of this band. I'm in charge of escape plans, among other
things."
                 "Maybe
I can help you," said Darragh. "I've been in traps twice—traps of the
Cold People—and escaped both times . . . No, the second time I blundered in
here with you."
                 "Suppose,"
said Lyle, "that you tell me more about how you came all the way up here
from the Orinoco."
                 "Shouldn't
we wait for Miss Thompson?"
                "I'm here," she called,
entering with a dark wooden tray. It bore a teapot and cups, figured in green
and red. She set the tray on a table near the upright support, and poured
steaming liquid into the cups. One of these she handed to Darragh. As he took
it,