behind him; at such a time it was always Jennings that he saw. The guard’s face was heavy, expressionless; in his eyes was no light. Lying in his bunk at night, 9009 would often see these eyes.
Among the machines, bearing a basket filled with threaded shuttles the garotter moved incessantly. Whenever the garotter came near, 9009 would look unconsciously across the aisle at the red-striped convict, who stood there at his machine sullen and motionless, his arms folded, his face turned down toward the lower roller upon which slid the finished cloth.
For six months 9009 had seen the garotter bear his basket of threaded shuttles, back bent, walking silently. Prison pallor had smeared the thug’s face with its coat of gray. This had begun the first morning, when, in spite of his pleadings, he had been assigned to this work. 9009 remembered the grayness and the sweat that had come into the face then. These had never left the face. Always when he came to this part of the room, they were there—a gray-
