By Radio

Perhaps it was because he did not feel particularly hungry that his
dinner appeared unappetising; possibly because it had been standing in
the corridor outside his door for twenty minutes, which did not add to
its desirability.

The sun had set and the air in the room had grown cold. He felt
chilly; and, when he uncovered the silver tureen and discovered that
the soup was still piping hot, he drank some of it to warm himself.

He had swallowed about half a cupful before he discovered that the
seasoning was not agreeable to his palate. In fact, the flavour of the
hot broth was so decidedly unpleasant that he pushed aside the cup and
sat down on the edge of his bunk without any further desire to eat
anything.

A glass of water from the carafe did not seem to rid him of the
subtle, disagreeable taste lingering in his mouth--in fact, the water
itself seemed to be tainted with it.

He sat for a few moments fumbling for his cigarette case, feeling
curiously uncomfortable, as though the slight motion of the ship were
affecting his head.

As he sat there looking at the unlighted cigarette in his hand, it
fell to the carpet at his feet. He started to stoop for it, caught
himself in time, pulled himself erect with an effort.

Something was wrong with him--very wrong. Every uneven breath he drew
seemed to fill his lungs with the odour of that strange and volatile
flavour he had noticed. It was beginning to make him giddy; it seemed
to affect his vision, too.