Alongside him, No. 17 slept open-mouthed and filled the ward with the fetor of decay. No. 8 laughed in a baby voice, No. 20 scratched methodically with a monotonous rasp. No. 5 chanted: "The Lord is my hospital, I shall not want. He marries me to green Packards. He leadeth me leadeth me leadeth me...."
"No. No. No. Not a hospital. It's a jail, that's what it is," No. 9 told him. "It's a jail run by the lousy Catholics and Masons where they can pull off their crooked political deals. Nuns and Priests letting on they're nurses and doctors. Spying me out. Reporting. Giving me blue looks and electric sparks out of the walls. They know I won't let 'em run the country. I'll tell the papers. I'll tell everybody!"
"Did I ever tell you about paper?" No. 10 chattered with manic brightness. "Did I ever tell you? A sheet of paper is an inclined plane. A sheet of paper with lines on it is an ink-lined plane. An inclined plane is a slope up and a slow pup is a lazy dog."
There were steps behind Lennox, and a heavy voice said: "Jesus! Will you look at him? He's prayin' again."
Before the attendants could throw him back into bed, Lennox got up and climbed in. They laughed ... two impervious men in identical white uniforms wearing the identical expression of indifference. The only way they could be distinguished was by their hair; one black, one red.
"Got you trained, huh buster?" the red-head said. "Not this time, though. Come on."
Lennox put on the blue bathrobe and the straw slippers and meekly followed the attendant down the ward.
"What day is today?" he asked.
"Wednesday."
The ward doors were unlocked and they passed out into a white corridor. Barred windows looked west across The Rock and halfway into New Jersey on this crisp, clear afternoon.