Ross had patience which he had learned from the mixed heritage of his
two pasts, the real and the false graft. He could wait as he had waited
many times before--quiet, and with outward ease--for the right moment to
come. It came now with footsteps ringing sharply, halting before his
cell door.
With the noiseless speed of a hunting cat, Ross flung himself from
behind the door to a wall, where he would be hidden from the newcomer
for that necessary instant or two. If his attack was to be successful,
it must occur inside the room. He heard the sound of a bar being slid
out of its brackets, and he poised himself, the belt rippling from his
right hand.
The door was opening inward, and a man stood silhouetted against the
outer light. He muttered, looking toward the corner where Ross had
thrown his single garment in a roll which might just resemble, for the
needed second or two, a man curled in slumber. The man in the doorway
took the bait, coming forward far enough for Ross to send the door
slamming shut as he himself sprang with the belt aimed for the other's
head.
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