The Egoist

           "Itwasn’treal,wasit?"saidMr.Thompson.

           Theystoodinfrontoftheradio,asthelastsoundofGalt’svoicehadleftthem.Noonehadmovedthroughthespanofsilence;theyhadstood,lookingattheradio,asifwaiting.Buttheradiowasnowonlyawoodenboxwithsomeknobsandacircleofclothstretchedoveranemptyloud-speaker.

           "Weseemtohaveheardit,"saidTinkyHolloway.

           "Wecouldn’thelpit,"saidChickMorrison.

           Mr.Thompsonwassittingonacrate.Thepale,oblongsmearatthelevelofhiselbowwasthefaceofWesleyMouch,whowasseatedonthefloor.Farbehindthem,likeanislandinthevastsemi-darknessofthestudiospace,thedrawingroompreparedfortheirbroadcaststooddesertedandfullylighted,asemicircleofemptyarmchairsunderacobwebofdeadmicrophonesintheglareofthefloodlightswhichnoonehadtakentheinitiativetoturnoff.

           Mr.Thompson’seyesweredartingoverthefacesaroundhim,asifinsearchofsomespecialvibrationsknownonlytohim.Therestofthemweretryingtodoitsurreptitiously,eachattemptingtocatchaglimpseoftheotherswithoutlettingthemcatchhisownglance.

           "Letmeoutofhere!"screamedayoungthird-rateassistant,suddenlyandtonooneinparticular.

           "Stayput!"snappedMr.Thompson.