The room was heavy with coiling clouds of stale smoke and rank with the taste of air which had been breathed too often. It seemed that every man who could possibly find an excuse for cramming himself in the room had done so, and they leaned against the walls, poised on the edges of tables and chairs, smoking, breathing, their eyes heavy with lack of sleep and nervous tension.
Adams sprawled in a chair, his tunic unbuttoned, his grizzled hair rumpled and his bloodshot eyes dull as he listened to the voice of the thin man sitting before the radio. Comain wiped his lips with the back of his hand, adjusted a control a trifle, and leaned closer to the microphone.
“Curt. Comain here. Answer me, Curt. Answer me damn you!”
“Maybe the radio went?” A man whispered the suggestion, then recoiled at
