Time Thieves

again.
        
        “We won't hurt you,” the triplet crooned.
        
        It couldn't end here. He wouldn't let it end here. It was no longer merely a matter of sanity and insanity, nor was it strictly a question of life or death. Now, he must consider Della, that woman who was no longer a woman but a part of himself. That made all the difference.
        
        “… no pain,” one of the triplets was saying.
        
        “… for your own good.”
        
        The roof of the tunnel was only six inches above his head. Now, he turned to examine that, in hopes there would be a vertical run which emptied into this horizontal system. He began his search against the end wall, working toward the approaching triplets who still murmured their reassurances. He scraped his fingers on uneven stones and rough concrete; in moments, his fingers were growing numb from the torture.
        
        And then his fingers hooked in a drainage grill and brought him to a halt with a flash of pain. It was the most pleasant pain he had ever experienced, a positive thrill.
        
        He pushed up.
        
        The grill rattled, loose.
        
        He jumped, striking it with both fists, knocking it out of its recessed niche. It clattered onto a floor overhead.
        
        “Mr. Mullion?”
        
        The triplets came forward a bit more quickly.
        
        He leaped and caught the edges of the hole. He hung there a moment, his feet inches from the tunnel floor, every muscle of his body strung tight. He was a century old, wrecked by time and experience, too tired to go on. It would be much easier to drop, relax, and let them have him.
        
        But he had never been a quitter. And there was Della, the other him, his second half who needed him as much as he needed her.
        
        He found the strength to shove up, grapple to chest level with the hole, then lever himself through with his elbows. He sprawled on a cold, damp cement floor, sucking stale air into his lungs. Though the darkness here seemed almost as complete as that in the storm drain, he knew he was not merely in another tunnel. He sensed open space about him, a high ceiling.
        
        He got to his feet without trouble. The flush of excitement at having escaped the drains seemed to have washed away all the weariness he had felt burdened with only a moment ago.
        
        “Mr. Mullion-” the first of the triplets began as it worked its way free of the tunnel.
        
        Pete swung his left foot, kicking the mechanical man solidly in its face.
        
        Something snapped. Something else made a soft, sickening splatter. The triplet whined stupidly, coughed once and fell backwards, on top of his comrades.
        
        He had to rely on instinct and put as much space between himself and the triplets as he could. He looked about, searching for something that would guide him. He found it, to his right, a third of the way up the wall. It was a fine, bright point of light leaking under a door. He went for it, fell on sudden, steep steps, and climbed until he reached a wooden door that was not locked. He opened it without hesitation.
        
        Behind, one of the triplets struggled out of the drain. Softly, it called to him, its voice as melodic as ever, no sign of exertion in its rounded tones.
        
        Pete went through the door, closed it and latched it behind him.
        

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    XI
        
        
        With his back against the cellar door, he studied the kitchen in which he stood. It was a large room, painted white with a red tiled floor, everything clean and sparkling. Though the high ceilings indicated an old structure, the kitchen was well appointed with modern ranges and a huge freezer and refrigerator. In the center of the room, a thick wooden worktable had a stainless steel sink set flush with the surface.
        
        Just then, the swinging door that lead from the kitchen to the dining room swung inward. A sturdy, Germanic woman, wide of hips, with legs like posts and arms like a wrestler's, came into the kitchen, carrying a dirty coffee cup, which she was obviously intent on scrubbing. The clock above the freezer read six-forty; this was probably the last sign of her own breakfast. At first she did not see him by the cellar door. Then, as if reluctantly tearing her attention away from the grimy dishes, she