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A shock-headed, square-bodied little safe-cracker, called “Shorty” Hayes, and doing fifty years, admonished 9009 in the subtle language of those who are watched.

The two sat on a board, suspended by ropes from the roof, far above the ground, painting the wall. They had been working all day and had arrived to the space immediately below the windows of the office of the captain of the yard.

“Shorty” did not speak aloud. He did not use his tongue at all. He talked with his eyes—a single sharp shifting of the eyeballs and a flash of light from them, both shift and light-flash moving toward the window, slightly ajar just above their heads.

It was Jennings who was talking within the office. His voice, suddenly, had gone to a lower key. “Things are moving,” he said quietly. Rh