Pepper took his elbow away and the window slammed down. Through the murky thumb-printed glass, Pepper could make out the cashier collecting up his payrolls, screwing them up any how and stuffing them into his briefcase; then the office door opened, two massive guards came in and bound the cashier's hands, throwing a noose about his neck; one of them led the cashier off on the rope while the other took the briefcase and gazed around the room, catching sight of Pepper as he did so. For a while they stared at one another through the dirty glass, then very slowly and carefully, as if fearing to scare someone, the guard placed the briefcase on the chair and, without taking his eyes from Pepper, reached out for the rifle that was leaning against the wall. Pepper waited, cold and incredulous, as the guard took up the rifle, stumbled and went out, shutting the door behind him. The light was extinguished.
Pepper then fell back from the window, ran on tiptoe to his suitcase, seized it and fled, anywhere, as far as might be from this place. He took cover behind the garage and watched the guard come out onto the porch, holding his rifle at the port, a glance left and right, then underfoot; he took Pepper's raincoat, weighed it in his hand, rummaged in the pockets and after another glance around, went off into the house. Pepper sat down on his suitcase. It was chilly and night was falling. Pepper sat pointlessly staring at the lighted windows, whitened for half their height. Beyond the window shadows moved; on the roof the latticed vane of the radar silently rotated. Crockery rattled, night creatures called in the forest. Then somewhere a searchlight flashed out a blue beam and into it from behind the corner of the building rolled a shovel truck, rumbling and leaping on the rutted road; followed by the searchlight, it reached the gates. In the scoop sat the guard with the rifle. He was smoking, muffled up against the wind; a thick fleecy rope was wrapped around his left wrist and led off through the half-opened window of the driver's cab.
The truck drove off and the searchlight went out. Across the yard, scraping his gigantic boots, passed the second guard, a menacing shadow with a rifle under his armpit. Every now and again he bent down and prodded the earth, looking for footprints, seemingly. Pepper pressed his sodden back to the wall and, motionless, followed him with his eyes.
There came a terrible drawn-out cry from the forest. Somewhere doors slammed. A light went on on the first floor, someone said loudly: "Not half stuffy in your place." Something round and shining dropped into the grass and rolled to Pepper's feet. Pepper froze into stillness once more, than realized it was a yogurt bottle.
On foot, thought Pepper. It'll have to be on foot. Twelve miles through the forest. Through the forest, that was bad. Now the forest would see a pitiful trembling man, damp with fear and fatigue, dead under the weight of his suitcase, yet for some reason clinging onto it. I'll be trailing along and the forest will hoot and yell at me from both sides.
The guard had reappeared in the courtyard. He was not alone. Alongside came something else, breathing heavily and snorting, huge and four-footed. They halted in the middle of the yard and Pepper could hear the guard muttering: "Grab that, go on... Don't eat the thing, then ... It's not sausage, it's a raincoat, smell it then... Well? Cherchez when you're told..." The four-footed one whined and squealed. "Gaw!" said the exasperated guard. "Hunting fleas is your job... Get on there!" They melted into the darkness. Heels clacked along the porch, a door shut.
Just then something cold and moist knocked against Pepper's cheek. He shuddered and almost fell. It was an enormous wolfhound. It whined very quietly, gave a heavy sigh, and laid its heavy head on Pepper's knees. Pepper stroked it behind the ears. The wolfhound yawned and seemed about to shift itself around to get comfortable when the record-player thundered out from the first floor. The wolfhound silently started up and bounded off.
