People sat at windows and on roofs; people stood in penthouse gardens with highballs and binoculars, enjoying the sensation, making a new ritual of it. A flashbulb blazed up and died in the instant, on a setback, across and down the street, where some news cameraman with a telephoto lens was getting a shot for his tabloid.
"I have," Dave said quietly, "about two hundred seconds left."
"What a cheap thing to do!" Paul spoke harshly.
Dave smiled even more and he nodded. "It's all I have—my life. Cheap—I said so."
Paul stood up.
It was horrifying. He'd been sitting that long while. His arms were cramped. His legs must have been asleep. He tottered to his feet, rocked on the near-motionless air, careened his arms, stamped, glanced down with a round and dreadful focus of his eyes, caught his balance, and looked triumphantly at Dave.
"You're kind of forcing my hand," he said.
Dave stood up, too, then—very quickly, and without tottering. Stood up—and looked at his watch. "I mean, too, of course, Paul, that if you go—I'll also go. I'll try for you—and standing, like this—we'll go together. You see—you have no choice but to go in, or take me along. And there's only about a minute left."
I went closer. "Dave, for the love of God!" My voice was a cackle. "If this thing has to be gone through with—I'm the guy. After all, Dave—I've only got a little bit left anyhow! Get down, for Christ's sake—and let me get up—"
Dave hardly glanced at me. "Be quiet, Phil. Stay where you are." He turned again to look at Paul.