"We can talk," said Mr. MacDougall, "until I give you the sign we're near you-know-where. Meantime, we're buried." He looked round at all his reflections. "I don't envy your friend, cock. No fooling: this maze is a bastard. No fooling: it's the best there is. No fooling: ninety per cent of 'em don't get out 'less they take directions from the loud-speaker inside."
"Which loudspeaker?" demanded Masters.
The other, hunching up padded shoulders, regarded Masters with exaggerated expression of pity and hopelessness. Evidently he did not like coppers.
"This maze is a square within a circle. See?"
"Well? What about it?"
Mr. MacDougall pointed to the ceiling.
"There's a loud-speaker in every corridor. Only you can't see it (see?) less you look close. There's a microphone out in the circle, where it's open space. Bill Eraser keeps talking to the people in 'ere. Bill can't see 'em. ‘E can't 'ear 'em But Bill talks to ‘em as if he could, things that'd apply to anybody. And they jump and laugh nervous and Christ how they enjoy it!'’Careful, lady; that's a dead-end.' 'Mind, the gentleman with the bowler hat: you're taking a wrong turn.'"
Still there was no sound in the maze except MacDougall’s voice.
"About every ten minutes Bill will say, 'If you can't get out, follow the black arrow.' Them black arrows are painted high up on the glass, see? You can't find 'em 'less you're told about 'em. That leads to…"
"You know me, don't you?" whispered a thin, faintly husky voice from empty space.