By the head of the narrow bed that resembled something antiseptic in a barracks, Kane saw the black eye of a phone peeking out of a niche in the wall. He pulled it out and jabbed at a button. His throat felt tight and he could feel the pounding of his heart as he leaned against the wall. "This is Professor Kane, room 2004." "Yes, we're here." "And I'm here! In this ridiculous closet. I'm locked in. There must be some sort of mistake. The window--" "We'll be all right. We'll be fine in a little while." "Look here--connect me with the cocktail lounge. I want to speak with Phil Nordson. Yes, he's there--" He heard nothing, absolutely nothing, except his own heart. No clock in the room either. The walls and ceiling had a peculiar grained look. "Hello, Prof!" "Phil! Phil, listen, what in the name of God goes on here? I'm locked in! You said you reserved a suite for me, and this room--" "We aren't going to worry," Phil said. Kane heard laughter in the background and the high-pitched choral voices from the jukebox. "We'll be all right. We figured there would be a little trouble here and there, at first." "I don't give a damn about a little trouble there! Phil, I'm talking about me, here! I'm locked in. And my luggage. Where is it? And--" Kane's stomach jumped. A kind of terror hit him like a cold breath. "Phil! My briefcase. Where's my briefcase?" "We have it somewhere--" Phil was saying. "Just don't let us worry." Kane heard a clicking sound somewhere and he yelled into the phone but nothing came back. He released the phone and it was sucked back into the wall. He sank down on the bed and fumbled absently at his coat and then at his necktie. The walls had a blurred quality and he felt on the edge of passing out. He kept thinking of the briefcase, with years of work in it, the equations, more than could be preserved entirely in a man's head. It was too sickening to think about, the possibility of them losing his briefcase. Phil didn't seem concerned. No one was concerned with his briefcase, that was obvious. The only thing they were concerned about was that he didn't get along with the Gang. The hell with the Gang, every last one of the Gang. If he never heard of the Gang or saw the Gang again, he would consider himself extremely fortunate. He felt numb, too tired to think about anything. He fumbled at one shoe, got it off, then worked vaguely at the other one. He would rest, sleep, sleep for a long time, then he would be able to think. He might find this all exaggerated, unreal, once he slept, rested, woke up again. A man certainly had rights. There was some authority he could contact of course. He was just too upset to think about it anymore. He had his shirt, his undershirt off. He had his shoes and socks off and he flexed his feet in ecstasy. He unzipped his fly and as he started to stand up to take his pants off, he groaned with fright and fell backward onto the bed.