There was more noise, then someone yelled. They must be having a hell of a time getting the stuff through the narrow hall, I thought. My eyeballs ached, my legs were trembling, my stomach suddenly felt bad. I gagged. I hoped I wouldn't go to pieces. Time for the tooth now. I thought of how disappointed Bale would be when he found me dead in my cell. It helped a little; but still I hesitated. I didn't want to die. I had a lot of living I wanted to do first.
Then someone called out, nearby.
"Wolfhound!"
My head came up. My code name. I tried to shout, choked. "Yes," I croaked. I jumped to the bars, yelled.
"Wolfhound, where in hell...."
"Here!" I yelled. "Here!"
"Get back, Colonel," someone said. "Get in the corner and cover up."
I moved back and crouched, arms over my head. There was a sharp hissing sound, and a mighty blast that jarred the floor under me. Tiny particles bit and stung, and grit was in my mouth. With a drawn-out clang, the door fell into the room.
Arms grabbed me, pulled me through the boiling dust, out into the glare. I stumbled, felt broken things underfoot.
Men milled around a mass blocking the passage. Canted against the wall a great box sat with a door hanging wide, light streaming out. Arms helped me through the door, and I saw wires, coils, junction boxes, stapled to bare new wood, with angle-irons here and there. White-uniformed men crowded into the tiny space; a limp figure was hauled through the door.