Free Night Walk by Bob Shaw

I'm not built for climbing. Eight years ago I made it

and no more, and my shadow has increased considerably since then."

"You were going to tell me about the rifles."

"Yes. See those creepers with the deep red flowers, right at the edge of

the swamp? Those are dringo plants. The leaves are over a quarter of

an inch thick, and they're tough enough to take sewing together. We'll

bring needles and thread and make screens to get us past the rifles."

"You're sure they're good insulators?" Tallon asked doubtfully.

"They have to be. A species of leaping scorpion that can't stand temperature

variations lives under those leaves. They get pretty mad when you pluck

their cover away. But don't worry; we'll be protected."

"That's the other thing I was going to ask you about."

"It's all in the plan, son. Close to that same white rock there's a small

fissure in the ground. It was one of the places I could find without any

trouble, even when I couldn't see. That's where the escape kits are hidden."

"Kits plural?"

"Yes. I was going to go it alone, if necessary; but I knew I'd have

a better chance with a partner who could at least see where we were

going. One thing you'll find about me, son -- I'm strictly practical."

"Doc," Tallon said wonderingly, "I love you."

The principal items in Winfield's escape kits were two large squares of

thin tough plastic. He had stolen them from the Pavilion's receiving bay,

where they had been used to cover bulk deliveries of food. His idea

was to make a hole in the center, just big enough for a man's head,

put it on, and working from the inside, seal the edges together with

adhesive. Although crude, the envelopes provided a membrane area large

enough to support a man's weight on the quagmire. In several years

of steady filching, Winfield had accumulated a supply of antibiotics

and specifics to fight any swamp fever and insect poison likely to

be encountered. He even had a hypodermic syringe, two guard uniforms,

and a small amount of money.

"The only thing I hadn't allowed for years ago," Winfield added,

"is that our eyes will be traveling separately. I don't know how our

feathered friends will make out in the swamp. Not too well, I'm afraid."

Tallon stroked the bird on his shoulder. "They'll have to have suits,

too. If we go back to the workshop now, we can make up two small cages

and cover them with transparent plastic. After that we should be ready

to go whenever you say."

"I say tonight, then. There's no point in hanging around. I've wasted

too much time, too many years in this place already, and I have a feeling

that time's getting short for all of us."

As usual, the evening meal consisted of fish. In the two years he had been

on the planet, Tallon had grown accustomed to having fish for nearly every

meal; the sea was Emm Luther's only good source of first-class protein.

Outside prison however, it was processed to taste like other things;

in the Pavilion, fish tasted like fish.

Tallon toyed for a few minutes with the dry white flesh and the spinachlike

sea vegetables, then rose and walked slowly out of the mess hall. He was

finding it increasingly easy to get about in confined spaces using only an

occasional glimpse of himself stolen from someone's eyes. Working through

the bird -- which he had named Ariadne -- while it sat on his shoulder

would have been better, but it would have drawn too much attention in

the mess hall.

Winfield and he had decided to be as inconspicuous as possible during

their last hours in the Pavilion. They had agreed to keep away from each

other and make their way separately to the white rock at dusk, two hours

before the cell blocks were sealed for the night. The doctor was to go

first, carrying the improvised bird cages, and have the escape kits dug

up by the time Tallon got there.

Outside the mess hall, Tallon stood undecidedly for a moment. There was

almost an hour to go before it was rendezvous time. The only thing