He looked out of the window at the drizzle of rain. "How quiet the world
seems after it all----"

Then like the snap of bullets came the staccato voice through the open
door of the compartment.

"Find out why we are stopping in this beastly hole, Kemp, and get me
something cold to drink."

Kemp, sailing down the aisle, like a Lilliputian drum major, tripped
over Randy's foot.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said, and sailed on.

Randy looked after him. "'His Master's voice----'"

"And to think," Prime remarked, "that the coldest thing he can get on
this train is ginger ale."

Kemp, coming back with a golden bottle, with cracked ice in a tall
glass, with a crisp curl of lemon peel, ready for an innocuous
libation, brought his nose down from the heights to look for the foot,
found that it no longer barred the way, and marched on to hidden music.

"Leave the door open, leave it open," snapped the voice, "isn't there an
electric fan? Well, put it on, put it on----"

"He drinks nectar and complains to the gods," said the Major softly,
"why can't we, too, drink?"