Ficum lay on the soft featherbed. It was quite comfortable, but he could not sleep; he tossed and turned for hours. About midnight, he groaned and sat up, rubbing the bags under his eyes and dangling his legs over the side of the bed. His mind was in turmoil. All the information he had received since he had arrived was turning over and over in his head until it ached. He rubbed his head. Bother! he said to himself. I need to clear my head. Maybe a walk outside will help. He rose and opened the bedroom door quietly.