Single Combat
by Robert Abernathy
He came warily out of the basement room and locked the door behind him. Tense nerves spurred him suddenly to flight, and he started to bolt up the stair that led from the airwell. He tripped on a step that was crumbling, barely caught himself, and stood, swaying, chest heaving, fighting down panic.
Take it easy. Plenty of time.
Deliberately he turned back to the door, made sure once more of the heavy lock. He thrust the key into his pocket, then drew it out with a wry face and, instead, tossed it at the drainpipe grating. It hit a crossbar and rebounded to lie gleaming on the concrete.
Feverishly, like a man stamping on a scorpion, he kicked the key at the grating. It hung, slipped through tinkling, and fell out of sight.
. . .
