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.processtext.com/abclit.htmlrainbow's end.Which may be never while we're stuck in this place.'Sometime during Sampson's speech, Johnny had developed a crick in his back from sitting folded up onthe floor.He'd got to his feet and seemed to be occupying his time by staring morosely at the implacabledoor of our cage.He tested the bars that were set in the window - the sort of standard gesture oneassociates with prisoners.He looked back at the pair of us, with a wicked gleam in his eye.'Like to bust out?' he asked.'No,' I said.'They have guns.They might shoot.''How do you mean?' asked Sampson, who was understandably attracted by the idea.'I can get us out,' said Johnny confidently.'Sure,' I agreed.'He balances himself on the doorway and when the guard brings in our food, he dropson the poor sucker like the avenging angel.It's all in the movies.I've seen it.Go ahead and try, heroes.''No,' persisted Johnny.'It can be done.''You can pick the lock, I suppose,' I said.'That's the point,' he mocked back.'We don't have to pick the lock.This isn't a real jail cell.It's apunishment cell - for penitents to work off their sins.It wasn't designed to prevent a determined escape.It hasn't got a real lock.Only bolts on the outside.And there's enough space in the crack for us to workthem back with a knife-blade or even a comb.It would only take a couple of minutes, if we took a bolteach.'Sampson was off the bed like a shot, peering into the crevice between the door and the wall.'He's right,' he said.'A kid could break out in five minutes flat.And I've been here the best part oftwenty-four hours.''Hang on,' I said.'There are still the miners out there, and they still have guns.What the hell are we goingto do once we're out?''Whatever you want,' supplied Sampson.'Maybe there's nothing we can do.But it's a chance to find outwhat goes on here, and it's better than rotting in here.If all you want is to get away, you can always headfor the lock and space out.''You don't seem to get the point,' I pressed.'There are guys out there with guns.With the exception ofmy trusty flashlight, we're completely unarmed.'Sampson made a noise that was intended to indicate scorn.However, I wondered again, did guys likethat get to run star-ships? Low cunning and brashness, I supposed.'He's right,' said Johnny.'Better be out there than in here.We can get clean away before they realisewe're gone.' Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html'Clean away to where?'Common sense was on my side, of course.But Sampson thought he was on to a loser anyway, anddesperate measures were needed to put him back into the hunt.He didn't have the slightest idea whatmight be done, but he was keen to try it.I could imagine him sending out missiles to plough up acontortive domain in a dark nebula, and blowing himself to bits for his trouble.This breed of spacemancouldn't last for long, inexhaustible supply of ships or not.Simple natural selection would consign them allto hell.And there was no arguing with Johnny.He wouldn't learn to sit still until he was badly burned by playingwith too much hot property.This was his idea, and nobody was going to talk him out of it.'Let's get on with it,' he said, to Sampson.He pulled his penknife out of his pocket, and set to work onthe upper bolt.'Bugger you,' I said.'Play at Count of Monte Cristo if you want to.'So they did.I never really believed in digging tunnels with belt buckles and guards who were carefully dispersed so asnot to disturb any potential escape plans.But I had to admire the speed and facility with which those twomanaged to open that door.It was straight out of the comic books.It had real style.I was suitablyimpressed.Sampson went off like a rabbit, but Johnny paused to say, 'Come on, you fool,' before he toodisappeared.Well, what could I do? My nerves were still ragged from the rigours of the last four days.I was sick ofbeing manipulated by circumstance.I needed to act, to do something, whether it was constructive orpointless or just plain crazy.And I'd look a real fool when the miners came back and found that one oftheir pigeons had staunchly decided to play by the rules and not indulge in irresponsible chicanery.I went.I glanced at the bolts as I left, and remarked silently that it was a damn silly way to design a door.7There was the sound of running feet.The darkness and the echoes conspired to prevent me fromdefining the direction from which the sounds came.But they were close.There was no need for me todive for the nearest cover.I'd been skulking in deep shadow whenever the opportunity presented itself.There was a brief pause, while one set of footsteps died away, and then there was a gunshot.In thewake of the staccato echoes, many footsteps started up again.There were obviously several pursuersand several pursued.I crept forward to the nearest corner, intending to take a quick look at the lightedstreet in the hope of seeing something which might give me an idea what was going on.Then somebodystuck a gun.barrel into the small of my back
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