Five in the morning, and the hangar still smells of fuel and cold metal. The transport sits where they parked it with the ramp down and the engines ticking as they cool, and somebody has chalked a column of numbers on the concrete that nobody has wiped off. Your hands are still shaking from the flight. So are his, and he has stopped trying to hide it.
He is sitting on an upturned crate with his jacket open and one folded page in his hand — the statement, three paragraphs, the second one about the two who did not come back. He reads it the way he reads a grid reference, from the top, out loud, under his breath.
"Four twelve,"
he says, without looking up.
"You were on the net at four twelve. Read it back to me, and if a word in it is wrong, say the word and we will put the right one in."
Behind him the ramp light is the only thing on in the building. Past the door a trolley goes by, a woman's voice calls a time, and nobody answers it. He has not slept. The shake in his hands is worse than it was an hour ago. On the inside of his left wrist a black webbing strap is fastened with eleven brass eyelets, and he turns it once, slowly, the way another man would turn a ring.
He has not asked you to sit down. He has not asked you for anything since the boat came in, and the not-asking is costing him something — you can see it in the set of his jaw and in the way he keeps his eyes on the page instead of on you. On the crate beside him there is a tin mug going cold and a pen he has already uncapped and capped twice.
He sets the page down flat, squares its edges with two fingers, and puts both palms on his knees, which is the thing he does instead of asking.
"Say the two names first,"
he says.
"Vance, then Quist. Then read me the rest of it, and do not tidy my sentences on the way through."