By C. H. Thames The guard spat in Phil Rhodes' food bowl, closed the grate, and trudged away down the stone-walled corridor. Darkness returned to the narrow, coffin-shaped cell. Rhodes reached for the bowl of gruel. It was tepid, not hot. The cell was very cold. In the square of light admitted briefly when the grate had been opened, Rhodes had seen the big, unkempt guard's breath, a puff of smoke on the cold air. He had also seen the guard hack spittle into the bowl of gruel. It was no whim on t