Dugan had to hold on to the table to stay awake. He was fainting with anti-climactic fatigue himself. There was no clock in the room. He did not know what time it was. He had to get away. But the first passerby would shout the alarm or shoot to kill.
He threw the naked body into a cot and covered it with a blanket. The head lolled until he made a depression for it in the pillow. The feet kicked in a postmortal spasm. Dugan felt rueful. The enemy had been a brave man. But the men "under the brightness" at Hiroshima had been brave, too, and, if false and terrible dawns were to be kept from America, Dugan himself had to get back with the message. He finished tightening the covers. Only then did he dare close the door.
This was risky. Perhaps the overseer was known for never closing doors. Dugan grabbed the trousers and blouse off the chair and put them on. He got his feet into the calf-height boots but could not get them all the way on. Disgustedly he threw the boots aside and put on a pair of slippers. He put the gun in his pocket, looked around the room for identification papers, found none (Where had the fellow kept them?), took a small leatherette bound book instead. It bore the printed inscription SAMOE TAINOE SVEDENIE, so it was pretty obviously the equivalent of American "Top Secret."
Then, gun in hand, he set off down the corridor. There had been no switch with which to turn the light off or — if there were — he had not found it. Nor had there been anything to eat in the room.
He met one man in the darkest part of the corridor and said to him pleasantly, "We ought to have a fine day tomorrow—"
"Hope so," said the sleepy stranger, going right along. At Hundeshausen's room Dugan went in. He closed the door boldly and went over to the closet. Hundeshausen had too many clothes. They looked as though they would fit better than the Russian's. Poor Hundeshausen — he, or somebody else, would be charged with the murder anyhow. Dugan changed into a complete new set of clothes, including a good warm leather jacket into which his newly acquired gun fitted neatly. Even Hundeshausen's shoes were a pretty good fit.
Best of all, he found food hidden behind a pile of scientific pamphlets on the top shelf. There were several cans of Japanese crab meat, a can of excellent Soviet powdered coffee — of a brand which Dugan had tasted before, on his way to Atomsk — a box of English-type biscuits, half consumed, and several inches of liverwurst. Dugan buttoned his jacket and stuffed it all in.
Then he woke Hundeshausen up.
The German was irritable and incoherent, but he recognized Dugan as his friend. After repeated pinching of his shoulder, he asked:
"What you want?"