A good mud impression was made of the truck key stolen by Murphy, and already one of the dozens of technician POWs from the oil rigs was working on making a duplicate out of the hard base of his plastic tea mug, while another was using the file Mike Murphy had brought him to hone the edges of the pliers into a wire cutter. Murphy told Danny Mellin that he saw no reason why they couldn’t bust out that night. Shirley Fortescue, glancing up at the wind-riven sky, advised against it. “Too much moonlight,” she said, “now that the monsoon’s passed.”
Danny didn’t like the suggestion of any delay. “Longer we wait, the longer Upshut and his crew have to detect something’s going down. Besides, we could have an informer amongst us. Won’t take long before someone starts thinking about getting extra rations of rice — a bit of meat, whatever.”
“Then I say go tonight,” Murphy said. “Moon or not.”
“Let’s see what the weather’s like tonight,” Danny replied. Might cloud over later this afternoon.”
“I say go!” Murphy repeated.
“Wait and see,” Danny said.
“I agree,” Shirley put in.
“Two to one,” Danny said. “That it?”
“Women got the vote,” Shirley said, looking at Murphy. “Or hadn’t you heard?”
Right there and then, Murphy wanted her. Not only was she good-looking, but there was something about her standoffish manner that excited him, that begged to be tamed.