The Guns of Navarone

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The match scratched noisily across the rusted metal of the corrugated iron shed, fizzled, then burst into a sputtering pool of light, the harsh sound and sudden brilliance alike strangely alien in the stillness of the desert night. Mechanically, Mallory's eyes followed the cupped sweep of the flaring match to the cigarette jutting out beneath the commodore's clipped moustache, saw the light stop inches away from the face, saw too the sudden stillness of that face, the unfocused vacancy of the eyes of a man lost in listening. Then the match was gone, ground into the sand of the airfield perimeter.

«I can hear them,» the commodore said softly. «I can hear them coming in. Five minutes, no more. No wind to-night — they'll be coming in on No. 2. Come on, let's meet them in the interrogation room.» He paused, looked quizzically at Mallory and seemed to smile. But the darkness deceived, for there was no humour in his voice. «Just curb your impatience, young man — just for a little longer. Things haven't gone too well to-night. You're going to have all your answers, I'm afraid, and have them all too soon.» He turned abruptly, strode off towards the squat buildings that loomed vaguely against the pale darkness that topped the level horizon.

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