into the darkness. Above him, at regular intervals, drearily, there sounded a dry weary coughing.
“What makes ye cough so—so hard and dry-like,” he asked at length. He had asked this several times before, and knew; but now, suddenly, he wanted to talk.
“’Tis the emery dust a-cuttin’ away me lungs,” the answer returned from the darkness.
“It’s worse every day,” went on 9009.
There was a silence; then words floated down again. “It keeps ye awake nights,” said the invisible cell-mate meekly.
“I guess yes”—9009 kicked at his blanket viciously.
They were quiet for a time. A guard hissed by in his rubber shoes along the gangway.
“You ought to kick,” 9009 began again. “I’d roar till somebody heard.”
Two words fell back through the darkness. “No use.”
“Why in hell don’t you go to the hospital?”
“Can’t.”
