Dawn arrives (along with Less’s matinal nose-blowing) and he emerges again from his tent to find Mandern thoughtful by the morning fire. Less is left alone with his coffee, looking around at this foreign world, his own country. He looks over at Mandern: When will this gruff old man reveal even deeper instability? Today, at this supposed oasis? He watched Mandern easily put down two martinis last night; will it be something stronger tonight? Were those, in fact, breath mints? Is that pipe, in fact, empty? Less girds himself against chaos, but then again, he girds himself against everything.
