Sentence The Fourhundredandsecond

By the time they reached the Hold, sweating and gasping for breath, repair works seemed to have been completed, several large beams had been set at angles across the entrance and it was clear that the place itself was simply an opening into a dead-end; inside four rough beds had been fitted into the ledges which lined it, each occupied by the figure of an unconscious man, and the Medic, identified by the Red Cross stitched onto his uniform, was just squeezing out to make room for Dane; “hi prof,” he said, extending his hand, “Doctor Foster, from Gloucester, Massachusetts, welcome to Fort Zeroth. Can't get any lower than this,” he looked only a boy, and explained that he'd just done the first year of med school before he dropped out after an embarrassing incident, but hoped to return when he got home, “but don't worry, I've got the basics, which is about all I need here, anything more will have to wait till the casualty gets back to base, and these guys,” indicating with his thumb, “ain't goin nowhere anytime soon, and if that sounds pretty complaisant, it's just bein realistic” he squeezed past Dane and made his way back up the tunnel Dane had just descended; he felt a slightly cooling draught and his escort indicated an air-vent to the side, a natural opening, just inches wide, but sufficient to restore some balance at this depth; there was such a feeling of depression – maybe the weight of the whole mountain above, that Dane doubted anyone would have the energy to scintillate, or be fractious, breathing was about the most he would imagine possible, so when he was given a bedroll and shown where to put it, he heard the padlock click and realised that this was it, he was well and truly locked-down; the escort had a word with the guard on duty and then left, the guard opened a paperback book and began to read, Dane lay down and was immediately asleep!