HE TURNED AND LOOKED out the little barred window, because he couldn’t think of any additional way to apologize. He heard the wavering beat in the air and saw them—bobbing a hundred yards up, their wide metal vanes fluttering and hissing from the jets at the tips. The GI ‘copters. Waiting—as everyone seemed to be waiting.
Sue-Ann Bradley asked shakily: “Is anything the matter?”
O’Leary turned away. It was astonishing, he thought, what a different perspective he had on those helicopter bombers from inside Block O. Once he had cursed the warden for not ordering at least tear gas to be dropped.
He said harshly: “Nothing. Just that the ‘copters have the place surrounded.”
“Does it make any difference?”
He shrugged. Does it make a difference? The difference between trouble and tragedy, or
