Andrew did not at first hear the new command Chisholm gave. It was in a different tone, the voice of a man confident of his response:
It was only as he saw those around him slipping theirs on that Andrew took this in, and began to fumble with the mask which he had been given before leaving the Pale, and which had since hung uncomfortably against his chest. He was still struggling with it, as Chisholm’s next command came:
Vapour wreathed up, grey against the white of snow. Most of the people round the cars turned and ran, stumbling and falling over each other in their urgency. A few came on for a time and then, clutching their eyes, staggered away. Andrew got his mask on at last, but not before the tear gas had reached him. He sat with streaming eyes, staring out at a blurred scene.