He was in another cage, clear plastic panels, but the room beyond was so dark he could not see the walls, only the men who backed away from the barrier as he entered. The steel door slammed shut behind him. Seybold and Brewer safe behind the airlock. He recognized none of the men on the other side. A short, wiry Latino officer, two non-coms in alpine camouflage, and a pale, labcoated manikin with white, ropy dreadlocks spilling down to the small of his back. He didn't see Wittrock anywhere. There were more cages on either side of his, and the one on the right was occupied. The other prisoner approached the plastic wall between them. It was a naked man, middle-aged, sagging, flabby torso covered in downy gray hair. His lips moved silently, but when Storch looked at him, he could almost hear the words pouring into his head, pouring out of those unblinking gray eyes. Storch backed away, into the center of the cell. A speaker on the ceiling of his cell crackled. "What are we going to do with you, Sgt.
