He ranged about on tiptoe, investigating; the rising roar of voices seemed to come from above him. Perhaps he was in the basement of a prizefight stadium? As he listened the shouting voices died to a low, constant din that did not rise or sink. Those voices lured him, as had the voices that sang hymns in the church. Yes, he had to see the faces of those people. He crept forward cautiously, his hands outstretched as usual, and his fingers touched a smooth wall and at the instant of his touching it, the waves of voices rose again and it was as though an electric button had turned the voices on when his fingers touched the wall. Oh. . . . Maybe he was listening to a radio? No; no radio he had ever heard sounded that real.

As the voices died again to a low pitch, he felt along the wall and reached a corner and followed along the length of another wall, smooth and cold. His flesh felt a pricking sensation. Where was he going? He reached another corner and paused; it seemed as though he were playing a game with some unseen person whose intelligence outstripped his, who knew what he was going to encounter before he encountered it, who knew how he was going to react before he reacted. He pushed on and his fingers, poised sensitively before him, touched a rough metal ridge in the surface of the wall. He discovered that he was feeling over the facade of a door and he touched a metal knob whose cold surface was pleasant to his sweaty palm. He put his ear to the flat plane of the door and listened; the sound of the distant voices came clearer, but he did not know if they were voices of joy or despair. His hand gripped the knob and twisted it until he heard a soft click and felt the springy weight of the door as it opened a fraction of an inch. He was afraid to open it wide, yet he was lured on by curiosity and wonder. He jerked open the door and saw a furnace glowing with red coals. Ten feet from where he stood was another door, half ajar. He went to it, passing a sink plainly visible in the red darkness. He edged himself into the doorway and peered down an empty, white, high-ceilinged corridor that terminated in a dark complex of shadow. The belling voices rolled over him and his eagerness mounted.

Unconsciously, he turned back into the red room and stared about; his impulses had become tangled and he was at a loss. His eyes fell upon the faucet and again purpose informed his actions; he went to the sink and turned the faucet and the water flowed smoothly in a silent stream that looked like a spout of blood. He brushed the mad image from his mind; then, instead of drinking, he began to wash his hands leisurely and thoroughly, becoming engrossed in the task to the extent that he looked about for the usual bar of soap. He found one and rubbed it vigorously in his palms and a rich red lather blossomed in his cupped fingers, like a scarlet sponge. He stared at the red foam like a child inspecting some new manifestation of light or movement that had come within line of its vision, then he scrubbed and rinsed his hands meticulously. He examined his wet palms and found that the tiny blister which had risen on his finger from mowing Mrs. Wooten’s lawn was almost healed. He looked about for a towel, but there was none. He shut off the water and pulled off his shirt and wiped his hands dry; his fingers felt clean and supple. He put on the damp shirt and was grateful for the cool wetness that came to his skin. He wanted to see his face, but he could not find a mirror. He ran his fingers over the matted growth of hair on his chin; he needed a shave badly.