"Who the hell are you?" asked the first man in a flat voice.
These men were bad. They didn't play at it. They didn't try to be. It was etched in their cold eyes and tight mouths.
Gavin moistened his lips. "Murdock. Third assistant-engineer."
"Another one," exclaimed the second man in faint surprise. "I thought we'd bagged the lot."
The other grunted. "We'd better take him to Y."
Gavin was searched and then hustled up the ladder into the officer's mess. As he was propelled through the door, conversation died in the messroom, and four pairs of eyes turned on him curiously.
Gavin controlled his surprise. Villanowski was there, ironed to his chair, his homely features taut with strain. At the table to the left of Villanowski sat the emaciated factor. He wasn't ironed. Neither was Nadia Petrovna. She had changed into crisp shorts and was leaning forward, lips parted in surprise.
But it was the fourth man who drew the T.I.S. agent's attention.
He sat between Nadia Petrovna and the factor, lolling back in his chair indolently, a sheaf of papers spread on the table before him. His face was like a death mask in which the coloring, the lines had been painted by a machine. It was perfect, but without life.
Then Gavin realized that it was a mask. The man's whole face was a lie, even to the realistic mole on his chin.