Kinsman ignored the words of her song and bathed in the magic of Diane's voice. Everyone was silent, turned toward her as flowers face the sun, listening and watching her sad, serious face as she sang.
He felt Neal McGrath's presence beside him. Kinsman turned slightly and McGrath said in a throaty whisper, "We've got to talk."
Kinsman nodded.
McGrath put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on."
"Shh. Wait a minute."
"Now!"
A surge of anger welled up in him and Kinsman brushed McGrath's hand off his shoulder. But then it ebbed away and he whispered back, "All right . . . where to?"
McGrath led him back through the corridor that ran the length of Level One, to the area where the living quarters were. He found an empty cubbyhole, no name on the door, and gestured Kinsman inside it.
The two of them filled the tiny compartment. There was nothing much in it: just a bunk built into the curving wall, a sliver of a desk with a bolted-down swivel chair in front of it, and some cabinets along the other wall. Kinsman tried the bunk. It was springy, comfortable, but narrow. He knew that if he stretched out on it, it would be barely long enough for him.
"You'd have a hard time sleeping on one of these," he said to McGrath.
"What's that supposed to mean?" McGrath growled. Neal had taken the chair. It looked pitifully small for him. Kinsman thought of an underfed burro bearing an overfed American tourist.
Shrugging, he replied, "Not a damned thing, Neal, except that these are pretty damned small bunks."
McGrath's scowl did not ease. "Diane told you about her and me."
"That's right."
"Who've you told about it?"
"Nobody."
"Nobody yet," McGrath said, emphasizing the second word.
"Yeah," Kinsman agreed. "Nobody yet."
"Mary-Ellen knows all about it."
"So Diane said."
