Well, yes. He'd seen enough of the burgess by now to know that the deal he had optimistically outlined in the newspaper was out. Starkman wouldn't cave in; you could use the anti-outsider theme just so far, and then you had to come across with something tangible for Starkman himself, or for the borough of Hebertown. On the other hand, what about this: Suppose Groff cooled off on the location after being stuck in this crazy flood they had down here? Maybe it wouldn't be too hard to convince him Hebertown was a lousy idea--maybe even, this was a chance to do something with the old Ackerman tract north of Summit. He doubted that; Groff would know a swamp when he saw one; but suppose, an hour and eight minutes from now, when they went on guard duty together as he had carefully arranged, he merely suggested it to the manufacturer and made it sound good.... He wished his wife would stop that damn humming in his ear. God, why couldn't they at least be home, where they could be decently asleep in their own individual rooms? Asleep, Mrs. Goudeket's face was curved in a smile. She was dreaming of 1926, a bride, the rooming house at Brighton Beach. Between her and Mickey Groff, Sharon's face was smiling too, sweetly and trustfully, as she nestled obliviously against the manufacturer, but of course she wasn't asleep. * * * * * Sam Zehedi sat torpidly over the fire, waiting for the last of it to burn itself out. He'd nearly dropped off three times, and he and McCue, consulting, had decided it was more dangerous to leave it burning than to put it out. It did stink pretty bad, he thought fuzzily; putting water on it had been a mistake. It smelt a little oily. He swallowed and rubbed his stomach. That lousy candy bar, he didn't like it, he didn't want it, why had he eaten it? He wistfully turned his thoughts to pickled mussels wrapped in grape leaves, now farther out of reach than ever, and a nice, plump black-eyed girl to serve them. McCue had dozed off, he noticed. A kid. Well, let him sleep. What difference did it make? Funny, he thought dizzily, not even broiled lamb seemed attractive right now. He shouldn't have drunk that cream soda either--he gulped and wrenched his thoughts away from that cream soda. The smell of the dying fire was getting pretty strong and he felt nauseous, as if the floor were moving about underneath him. Now the sleepers were turning and coughing. There was something wrong, Sam Zehedi fuzzily thought. He swayed to his feet and lurched toward the door. Clear the air, he thought. The last embers of the fire winked out and he thought for a vague moment that he had lost his eyesight. He flung the door open with his last strength and took a deep sobbing breath. Images of white-tiled walls, green-painted corridors swirled through his head; he was ten again and they were wheeling him along the green-painted corridors to have his tonsils cut out, Morrisania Hospital--