Sherman looked around. In the next cage was Marta Lami, grinning and extending her hand through the bars.
"For Heaven's sake!" he said, and took the offered hand. "How did you get here?"
"How does anyone get anywhere around this place? In one of those patent Fords of theirs."
They gazed at each other for a moment, too glad of a familiar face to make the ordinary banal remarks. The dancer spoke first:
"Well, did they put the screws on you, big boy? They tried to pump me about that accident but all I'd think about was how good Broadway would look with all the lights, and they didn't make much out of me."
"I'll say they put the screws on me. They've had me in there every day since, trying to find out something about guns."
"Guns? What t'hell! Ain't they got that light-ray? They could give cards and spades to all the guns in the world with that. Wait a minute, though...." She thought for a moment. "Do you know, I think they're scared yellow about something and I'll bet a hundred dollars against a case of bathtub gin I know what it is."
"Yeh? Spring it. They keep pumping me and I'd like to know what it's all about."
The dancer glanced around. On the far side of her cage was an inattentive ape-man tossing his oil-ball about, across the corridor another. "Come over here," she said. "They haven't put me next to you for the fun of it, and they may have a dictaphone stuck around somewhere."
Obediently Sherman approached the bars of the cage.