He looked around him at his home-room with a certain clear satisfaction, if not pride. Now he kept his own mess kit, clean and shining. He had the shelf with ketchup, mustard; soap and shaving gear; tobacco and cigarette papers; a nice white enamel basin. And something more, too. Set into his water pipe, above the toilet bowl was a real luxury item--a faucet. Not many custodials earned that privilege but he had had it now for ... how long? Hard to say, to keep track. Quite a while now, anyway, but the pleasure in having it, in not having to use the bowl of the toilet for ... everything, hadn't worn off. He put his mess kit on his shelf, took his cup and went to draw a cup of water, for the joy in being able to do it, mostly. He drank luxuriously; carelessly spilled a half-cup of water into the bowl. There was a tapping on the wall, left side, across from his bunk. He frowned and ignored it. That tapping from other cells never amounted to anything, never seemed to make any sense. He'd tried it himself, at first. For some reason, a vibration barrier, it wasn't possible to talk and distinguish words from one cell to the next. But tapping? It made no sense either. It was an annoyance and the hell with it. Except.... * * * * * Jay 7 reached up over his head and brought down his mess gear; put it on his bunk in front of him; picked up his blunt knife and spoon. Overhead, the squawk box wound up a stirring speech on something by the governor and launched into the 1800 review of the rules. The sing-song voice started. Jay 7 began to rap a rhythm, simple at first, building into more intricate patterns, following the flow of the speaker. "Code One--tap, tap--Section A, 1 (a)--tap-tappety tap--." His head nodded. That was the only tapping that meant anything, a beat with a lift that a man could put himself into. His head nodded and he listened, absorbed, to his pattern of rhythm. He felt pretty good. Later he would feel better. Sure. Sure he would. This was Wednesday, a Rec. night. Tonight, after supper, Belle and her Three Graces would make a night round. "Personal service"--if you had the credits. He had the credits. He'd take a fall--hell, a couple, why not--out of old Belle herself. Not that Belle looked any better than the others, but at least she put a little life into it. A couple of hours with Belle, twelve credits; a bottle, four more. All right, he had them. Tonight he was really going to make a night of it. Yeah. Yeah? Yeah. And the next day, Thursday, all day ... yeah! His head ached, stomach churned; that burning back of the eye-balls; the awful, tight-drawn humming of nerves. And on just one bottle? God, that acid-burn gin. No, old Belle had been in rare form and he got two bottles instead of one. But even so ... must be that stew the night before. Oh death!