Kirk entered to find a huge, globular man clad in soiled linens
sprawled in a musty Morris chair and sipping a highball. The man's
face and neck were of a purplish, apoplectic hue; he seemed to
radiate heat-waves like a base-burner.

"Is this Mr. Weeks?" Kirk inquired.

"That's me."

"My name is Anthony."

"Glad to meet you," wheezed the fat man, extending a limp, moist
hand without rising. When Kirk had grasped it he felt like wiping
his own palm. "Have a seat." The speaker indicated a broken-backed
rocker encumbered with damp clothes, newspapers, and books. "Just
dump that rubbish on the floor; it don't matter where." Then he
piped at the top of his thin, little voice, "Zeelah! Hey, Zeelah!
Bring some more ice."

One glance showed Anthony that the place was indescribably
disordered; a rickety desk was half concealed beneath a litter of
papers, books, breakfast dishes, and what not; a typewriter
occupied a chair, and all about the floor were scattered documents
where the wind had blown them. Shoes and articles of clothing were
piled in the corners; there was not a sound piece of furniture in
the place, and through an open door leading to another room at the
rear could be seen a cheap iron bed, sagging hammock-like, its
head and foot posts slanting like tepee poles, doubtless from the
weight of its owner.