They moved on down the row of cells. The man sat. Maybe he should have been more friendly; played up to them. Then he could have asked them ... something ... about seeing somebody, somebody in charge, a lawyer ... anybody. He sat a while, ignoring the filthy bread, the noisome mush and the grey-tan coffee slush with the yellowish blob of spittle on top. But it bothered him. Not that he wanted to eat. God no. His stomach growled; let it growl. He was too nervous, too upset to eat anything, let alone ... that. But his mouth, his throat were parched, cotton dry, a desert, a burned out waste of dehydrated tissue. Liquid ... damn them. He went back again to the cell door. Shook it. Yelled, a hoarse croak. No answer, except a croaking echo, the subdued mutter from other cells. He quit trying to yell. His throat was too dry; it hurt. * * * * * For the first time since waking then, he really looked around, checked over the rest of the cell. It wasn't fancy. The bunk, hard mattress, blanket. Bars, walls. And, at the rear of the cell, stark, yellow-white, unadorned and unlovely, was one toilet bowl, no wooden seat, just the stained enamel. To it and through from the dim concrete ceiling above ran a heavy iron water pipe. Just where the pipe met the bowl was the handle. He had seen it all before without taking real notice. A toilet. Hell no, he didn't need a toilet. He was all dried out, tensed, frozen inside. But ... he walked the three short paces to the rear of the cell. He reached out, down; took the handle, pressed it. Water rushed out in a roaring flood, bubbling and swirling in stained bowl. Slowly the flow cut down and stopped. He pressed the handle again; again the rush of water. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Water. Sure, there was water, plenty of water. Water, water ... nor any drop ... to drink? No, Good Lord no; it was unthinkable. A man couldn't, not conceivably, drink water that came from such a thing. He would choke on it, strangle, die. But water.... He would die. The iron pipe above the bowl was sweating, tiny droplets. He pressed his tongue, his face against it. Water. Damned little water there. He hugged the pipe for a while, breath coming in harsh gasps. And, as he gasped, his mind emptied, slowly to a blank, clear, unreflecting lucidity of, not thought, of direct motor response. A minute, two. Then, moving deliberately, not thinking deliberately, he turned back to his bunk. A dish. A cup of nauseating muck. A little later he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and lit one of his two remaining cigarettes. The cup, rinsed, clean and filled with water, he had placed carefully down at the foot of the bunk on the inboard side. He sighed. His stomach rumbled. Food ... no, not that. He wasn't really hungry. Even if, maybe, a piece or two of the bread might be cleaned off a bit ... no.