"It's my arm," Thornwald gasped. "It's haemorrhaging--I'm bleeding to death!" "You that one-armed fellow they just brought in?" "Yes, yes! Come on! Get me a doctor before I bleed to death!" There was a note of desperate urgency in Thornwald's voice that was so convincing he could almost feel his stump throbbing. "All right, I'll take a look," the guard said finally. He fumbled with his keys and inserted one, while Thornwald threw himself to the floor and lay there, writhing in apparently hideous pain. "Where are you?" "Down here," Thornwald said weakly. "I can't stand up. I--" The guard bent to see what was wrong, and Thornwald kicked upward at him. His boot took the jailer on the side of his jaw and knocked him backward against the wall. As he staggered there, stunned, Thornwald sprinted past him and out the cell door into the corridor. "Get him, Miller!" he yelled as he broke away. A bright stunbeam light spurted out as Thornwald left. He winced as it nicked him in one ankle, almost hamstringing him, but he kept going. Behind him, he heard the sound of Miller fighting with the bewildered guard. Thornwald dashed down the corridor as well he could with one foot nearly crippled, reached the window, hoisted himself up with his arm, and crawled up to the ledge. He smashed open the window and shimmied through. He was out of jail now--or would be when he dropped the ten feet to the ground. But he wasn't out of trouble yet--not by a long shot. * * * * * The building up ahead was the Governor's Mansion--and that was the first stop, and, he hoped, the last. The customs inspectors had said something about taking his trunk to the Governor. Good. Thornwald had to get to his trunk before much more time elapsed. His arm was in the trunk--the prosthetic arm. He was almost helpless one-armed, except where he could capitalize on the weapon of surprise. Once he got the prosthetic from his trunk-- He faded into the shadows as a uniformed figure passed by. One of Henderson's policeman, no doubt, making the night rounds. Thornwald let the man go by, then continued to glide among the shrubbery toward the impressive mansion that was Henderson's home. Thornwald's mind revolved the situation over and over as he moved along. This world was Henderson's private property, and anyone who said different was jugged instantly. It was a world of terror in which a harmless stranger could become a hunted fugitive in a matter of minutes. He reached Henderson's place. It was a walled mansion, as he expected. There were ways to get over walls, though, Thornwald reflected. He glanced around, found a strange-looking red-leaved tree whose angular limbs had the consistency of rubber, and dragged himself upward. He reached the bough he wanted, grasped it firmly, and swung out over the wall. He landed--