Time Thieves

connected to an alarm somewhere. Just the same, he braced himself against the platform rail of the landing and set about kicking the chest-high window to pieces. He finally managed to break it. Glass tinkled on the floor inside, but there was no alarm. He reached through the square, careful of the few jagged shards remaining, found the fire latch on the panel, threw it and pushed the door inward.
        
        The burglar alarm went off then.
        
        He stepped back and looked down the alleyway. The triplets were hurrying along, looking purposeful. They would be on the stairs in a few seconds. Wiping perspiration from his face, he went into the warehouse, despite the alarm, and closed and re-bolted the door.
        
        No lights burned in the warehouse. The moon and distant streetlamps shone through the broken window in the firedoor, but that only seeped a few yards into the room. He moved quickly into the darkness, aware that the longer he stood in the light the longer it would be before his eyes had adjusted to the gloominess in the rest of the building.
        
        He fell over a crate, striking the wooden floor with his shoulder. The pain in his skinned legs and bruised arm was so sharp that he might have lain there for several minutes, rubbing his flesh. But he didn't. He heard the triplets on the stairs, their hard-soled shoes clanging against the iron. Cursing, he got up and stumbled deeper into the dark. He walked with his arms ahead of him, trying to avoid another fall.
        
        Perhaps a hundred feet into the chamber, he came up against the other wall. He could see no more than ten feet ahead, and then only the barest outlines of things. Keeping one hand against the wall, he walked toward the back of the building.
        
        The triplets fumbled with the fire latch, at the door. It snicked open.
        
        He reached the rear wall without encountering stairs. He turned and hurried back the way he had come, following the cold metal toward the front of the warehouse. The alarm had stopped. That was, he knew, only because the police had switched it off from headquarters and were on their way. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad.
        
        “Mr. Mullion.”
        
        He almost stopped when he heard the newscaster's voice, but he caught himself and continued to follow the wall.
        
        “We are not here to harm you,” the newscaster said.
        
        He walked.
        
        “You won't have the slightest notion of pain, Mr. Mullion. Let us assure you of that.”
        
        He reached the front of the room without making a noise that could give him away. He found a railing and emptiness beyond, a discovery which indicated they were on a second-floor storage loft which overlooked the main floor of the warehouse. Somewhere, there had to be a way down.
        
        “Mr. Mullion,” one of the triplets said, looming up twenty feet away as Pete followed the smooth railing.
        
        He stopped, his heart racing, but he felt a break in the rail as he did so. He edged forward a foot or two and felt around with his boot until he discovered a step. In a moment, blood pounding in his temples, he was halfway down toward the lower level, taking two risers at a time, no matter what the danger of a fall. He heard the mechanical man start after him as he set foot on the cement floor.
        
        Outside, the wail of sirens rebounded from the rippled warehouse walls. Would the triplets stay or flee?
        
        “Mr. Mullion, if you will wait there just a moment-”
        
        He didn't bother listening to the rest of it, but moved off through the crated machinery that offered cover.
        
        The eight-fingered being had begun another concerted effort to break down the partition that surrounded Pete's mind. It wanted to surge through, shredding his defenses, and capture him, thereby putting an end to this chase. Fortunately, Pete wanted his freedom even more than the strange creature wanted him captured. For the moment, the stronger of the two desires seemed to be winning out. The assault made him feel dizzy and weak and uncertain. Nevertheless, he managed to maintain his mental sanctity against the onslaught. Hunched to present the smallest target, he fled deeper into the stacks of boxes and barrels.
        
        Three police cars braked noisily in the brick courtyard