"We've got batteries!" It was almost a snarl from Danton's throat. "Batteries enough to keep us going comfortably for days. Why not use them?"
"And suppose the trouble hasn't been fixed by the time they're drained?" challenged Gilchrist.
"Don't say that!"
"Take it easy," advised another man.
Danton bit his lip and faced away, mumbling to himself.
A baby began to cry. There seemed no way of quieting it.
"Turn that bloody brat off!" The tone came saw-toothed from somewhere in the pack.
"Shut up!" A woman's voice, close to hysteria.
Gilchrist realized that his teeth were rattling. He forced them to stop. The air was foul in his nostrils.
He thought of beaches under a flooding sun, of summer meadows and a long sweaty walk down dusty roads, he thought of birds and blue sky. But it was no good. None of it was real.