Jay 7 reached up over his head and brought down his mess gear; put it on his bunk in front of him; picked up his blunt knife and spoon. Overhead, the squawk box wound up a stirring speech on something by the governor and launched into the 1800 review of the rules. The sing-song voice started. Jay 7 began to rap a rhythm, simple at first, building into more intricate patterns, following the flow of the speaker. "Code One—tap, tap—Section A, 1 (a)—tap-tappety tap—." His head nodded. That was the only tapping that meant anything, a beat with a lift that a man could put himself into. His head nodded and he listened, absorbed, to his pattern of rhythm. He felt pretty good. Later he would feel better.
Sure. Sure he would. This was Wednesday, a Rec. night. Tonight, after supper, Belle and her Three Graces would make a night round. "Personal service"—if you had the credits. He had the credits. He'd take a fall—hell, a couple, why not—out of old Belle herself. Not that Belle looked any better than the others, but at least she put a little life into it. A couple of hours with Belle, twelve credits; a bottle, four more. All right, he had them. Tonight he was really going to make a night of it. Yeah.
Yeah?
Yeah. And the next day, Thursday, all day ... yeah! His head ached, stomach churned; that burning back of the eye-balls; the awful, tight-drawn humming of nerves. And on just one bottle? God, that acid-burn gin. No, old Belle had been in rare form and he got two bottles instead of one. But even so ... must be that stew the night before. Oh death!
He fought the day, his work, all day. He missed quota. The fingers were just a blistering mist before his eyes. He drank water and gagged on it. He paced his cell. He sweated. God! Could a man live like this?
"Boy! Say there, boy. Look alive, eh?"
Mr. Boswell, the old electronic shyster. It was afternoon, finally, of the everlasting, miserable day. Jay 7 looked up to watch sullenly as, the usual afterthought, Mr. Boswell rolled on off to plug in his cord; and rolled back. Made a noise, a harrumph-type, throat clearing, introductory noise. Mr. Boswell had no throat but he was a believer in certain niceties, form and procedure.
"Well now, boy. Let me see, where are we? Oh yes. Bring you up to date. My latest petition for further continuance pending a review of the transcr...."
Suddenly, it was all too much. Jay 7 was mad, furious. He, in a word, blew his gin-throbbing top. He was on his feet, shaking hands, white-knuckled, gripping bars. "Goddamnit!" he shouted, "Goddamnit, you rotten old fraud, I've had enough, you hear me? I got a by-God-bellyfull enough."