Somebody ought to shut off the rain.
It was growing dark: the eye of the fire poked across the door. Across the braided rug.
The phone was at one end of the long living room, unless someone had rewired it. Without switching on lights or lamps, he walked across the room, hoping it had not been altered: the phone ... he lifted the receiver and waited:
"What number, please?" a pleasant voice asked: the voice was Ermenonville French and yet Orville thought of a girl in Ithaca, a face with yellow hair around it, a happy face.
"Can you get me the hospital?"
There was a pause as if the operator was trying to identify Orville or was puzzled by his accent.
"One moment, please."
Then the hospital responded--someone, a man, spat through an earful of static:
"What do you want?"
It was the voice of war, with a German accent.