she was in a maze of tunnels that ran the full extent of the housing development.
Then she heard a babble of voices. Having traced the hubbub to its source, she cautiously peeped around the corner.
She found herself looking at a room as vast as the conference table that ran down the middle of it,
and at this table, in two long rows, sat the surviving men in gray.
Momo almost felt sorry for them, they looked so woebegone.
Their suits were torn, their bald gray heads cut and bruised, and their faces convulsed with fear, but their cigars were still smouldering.
Embedded in the wall at the far end of the room, Momo saw a huge steel door.
The door was ajar, and an icy draft was streaming from whatever lay beyond.
Although Momo knew it would do little good, she burrowed down and tucked her bare feet under her skirt.
A man in gray was presiding at the head of the conference table, just in front of the strong-room door.
"We must economize," Momo heard him say. "Our reserves must be carefully husbanded. After all, we don't know how long they'll have to last us."
"There's only a handful of us left," cried someone. "They'll last us for years."
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