``Boy, you're stirrin early,'' a sleepy voice said.

``Yehhh,'' said Coughlin, testily, eyeing him up and down.

``Lookit that come down, willya,'' said the man, scratching himself, yawning.

``Yehhh,'' said Coughlin, practically spitting on him.

The man moved away.

That's the way. They'll toe the line. Goddamn it. Keep the chatter to a minimum, short answers, one word, if possible. Less bull the more you can do with um. That's Brown's trouble. All he does is to bullshit with his squad, and they are the stupidest bastards around. Just about to get their asses kicked into hut Seven. Plenty of room there now. All those dumb 8 -- Balls croaked. You can do anything with these dumb fucks if you know how. Anything. They'd cut their mothers' belly open. Give um the works. See, he's already snapping it up, the dumb jerk ** h Coughlin grinned, feeling supremely on top of things ** h He watched the snow once again. It infuriated him. It made no sense to him ** h He whirled around, suddenly hot all over, finding the man who had been standing before him a few moments back, nailing him to the spot on which he now stood, open-mouthed --

``You -- Listen! - name William Foster's Four Internal Contradictions in Capitalism. Quick -- Quick -- Now!''

The man shrank before the hot fury, searching frantically for the answer ** h Finnegan woke up. There was a hell of a noise this time of morning. He stared out the window. For Christ's sake! The whole fucken sky's caved in! He looked for the source of the noise that had awakened him ** h It was that prick Coughlin. What the hell was he up to now? Why didn't he drop dead? How did they miss him when they got Slater? How? ** h Then he was asking himself the usual early morning questions: What the Hell am I doin here? Is this a nut-house? Am I nuts? Is this for real? Am I dreamin?