“You don’t rub enough,” the Alsatian advised, “il faut frotter bien!” A number of fellow-captives were regarding my toilet with surprise and satisfaction. I discovered in the mirror an astounding beard and a good layer of dirt. I worked busily, counselled by several voices, censured by the Alsatian, encouraged by Judas himself. The shave and the wash completed I felt considerably refreshed.
WHANG!
“L’américain en bas!” It was the Black Holster. I carefully adjusted my tunic and obeyed him.
The Directeur and the Surveillant were in consultation when I entered the latter’s office. Apollyon, seated at a desk, surveyed me very fiercely. His subordinate swayed to and fro, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back, and regarded me with an expression of almost benevolence. The Black Holster guarded the doorway.
Turning on me ferociously: “Your friend is wicked, very wicked, SAVEZ-VOUS?” Le Directeur shouted.
I answered quietly: “Oui? Je ne le savait pas.”
“He is a bad fellow, a criminal, a traitor, an insult to civilization,” Apollyon roared into my face.
“Yes?” I said again.
“You’d better be careful!” the Directeur shouted. “Do you know what’s happened to your friend?”
“Sais pas,” I said.