There were two gratings facing each other in opposite walls—small square patches of mesh in a bare expanse of pastel yellow plastic. Ventilation ducts. A door was set in another wall. It was much too centrally placed; in point of fact the bottom of the door-frame was over a foot off the floor of the room, and there was the same gap between the lintel top and the ceiling. Charles had a shattering headache; as he knew, an inevitable after-effect of astarate. He scrambled to his feet, wincing, and walked unsteadily across to the door. Dinkuhl’s whistle-key had disappeared but he could remember a few standard combinations of notes. He tried them out, despite the dryness of his throat. There was no response; the door remained closed. He pressed his shoulder against it, too, but it remained firm. He went over and sat down in the airfoam chair to think things out. It folded persuasively about him, and he saw that there were straps by which he could fasten himself in.
