his thigh touched a table edge; swiftly flitting hands searched for and found a lamp, softly lifted the shade from its socket.
Then a match. He struck it with his left hand, fingers curled around to hide the tiny blue flame. His gun was ready in his right. The little stick was an unconscionable time catching the flame. When it did Original touched fire to the lamp's wick. With a single swift move he had set the burning lamp, minus its chimney, on the floor before the table and leaped back into the shadow where the smoky tongue of flame could not search him out.
By the light he saw a blond head he recognized as Whistler's stir in a bunk not five feet away. With a broad sweep of his left arm he sent the lamp chimney crashing on the floor beneath Whistler's bunk.
"Wake up—you!" Original called in a voice that could carry to his aides outside.
