The dew-wet grass chilled his face and hands. His long legs felt the water of the moat creep up past his knees. A semiautomatic rifle with carefully timed shots searched the area where he had been. "Good man," he noted professionally and replied with a pistol shot. He rolled again back to where he had been, but still further down the slope. The rifle spoke copper-coated syllables once more, with a sequence of shots that started where he had fired from. But this time the sequence hunted further to both right and left. This could go on all night. He _had_ to get to a visiphone. Yet he couldn't leave here. The moment he did, the convicts has a wide-open road to freedom. The man with the rifle was good, Bennington noted again. His shots were grass-clippers that could have substituted for a lawn mower. Then a submachine gun chuckled crisply from Bennington's left. There was a howl of pain. The rifle stopped looking for the general. Bennington began crawling along the edge of the moat. That submachine gun had spoken for his side of the argument and he had a big need for the author who had used its words so well. He stopped crawling. Someone was coming toward him. "General?" "Ferguson!" "Yes, sir. You all right?" "Yes. And you?" "Fine, sir, but it was close for a minute." "Tell me." "I was coming in the door to Message Center, going to put my gun back in the armory, then get your supper from the kitchen. I heard someone screeching down the hall and then a couple of shots. The clerk on duty got up and started toward the hall door. But it banged open in his face and someone emptied a pistol into him. I let loose a burst and jumped back. The guy with the pistol came through the door, still hollering. I gave him a belly-full, then waited a moment to see if anyone was behind him. Nobody was. I remembered hearing a window smash, so I looked around this way for you." "You've got how much ammo?" "About half a clip, sir." "We need help. I know they've got Message Centre, but--" "The private line from the house, sir?" "Right. And you'll stay here." Ferguson understood. "No one will get out this way, sir, but I'll go with you part way so I can cover the door out of Message Center, too." No more words. Not even a handshake. These two had worked together, fought together, before. Speeches weren't needed. * * * * * Bennington's house was dark and, because it was still new to him, he barked his shins twice before he found the visiphone. To save time and avoid any lights, he first cut out the visual circuit and then he simply dialed "0". "Operator," a lilting voice replied. "Connect me with the nearest State Police Barracks, please. Warden of Duncannon Prison speaking." "One moment, please." Not a change in the lilt. Silence; then, "State Police Barracks, Private Endrews speaking."