“In the hypo.”
Roger watched narrowly.
Zendt was either a master of facial control or he was one of those “innocent bystanders” who manage to intrude when some crucial point of a drama is about to be played.
“Please develop this run from the speed camera. Ellison and Millman have caught the torque of their erratic motor on film. Sixteen exposures to a foot—a million to the minute. Shooting time, one half minute. Does that tell you the size of reel to wind it on?”
Roger, making mental computation with one side of his mind as he studied the situation with the other, nodded.
He would put the ceiling light out, but he would not satisfy Zendt by staying there. Perhaps the man came prepared to hold him at his dark-room work in case he had not yet been sufficiently dosed.
“Bring you prints soon,” he told Zendt. “I’ll get this into a developing tank.” He risked a question.
“Is anybody in the cellar? The ventilator seems to be choked. No air comes in. It’s—stuffy.”
“Maybe. Millman was down, earlier. Potts hasn’t come. Grover has gone out.” To let Potts get sleep, to stand guard over Astrovox, Roger decided.
“I’ll telephone down and see—oh, look. It was shut off.”