Would that answer, he wondered, be a month, a week, to-morrow?
The shutter banged, the light streamed, down went Heywood against the plaster.

Thick dregs from the goblet splashed on the tiles.

A head, the flattened profile of the brisk man in yellow, leaned far out from the little port-hole.

Grunting, he shook the inverted cup, let it dangle from his hands, stared up aimlessly at the stars, and then--to Heywood's consternation--dropped his head to meditate, looking straight down.
"He sees me," thought Heywood, and held himself ready, trembling.

But the fellow made no sign, the broad squat features no change.