But finally we were ready. I took out my notebook and opened it upon the table before me. Whitney's frosty eyebrows raised. Then he quietly reached inside his own topcoat, produced his notebook and pen, and laid the notebook open before him. It was a gesture of an almost-forgotten past, but a habit neither of us had ever abandoned. Something about it—the reminder of countless AEC conferences we had both attended—had a steadying effect on me.
I placed my pistol in the center of the table. The guinea pigs' cage was on the floor before us. I told what I had to tell.
Then I went to the cage, removed one of the animals and tucked it into my pocket. Returning to the table, I picked up the pistol and fired at the cage. The shrill E flat note pierced the rushing sound of the rain.
Whitney rose and went to the cage. Gently removing the little creature, he felt it a moment, then nodded.
"Asleep," he said, and replaced it in the cage.
Looking over my notes, I see that considerable space would be required to cover the entire interrogation which followed. Also, I see that I failed to note down the almost gradual change in my old friend's demeanor—from his calm, quiet manner at first to the keen-eyed excitement of his flushed features, his rapid-fire questions at the end.
I shall, instead, give some examples of that discussion.