Not a ray of light, not even the vague perception of light that the eyes preserve when the lids are tightly closed.
I shout--I shout repeatedly.

No response.

My voice is smothered.

The air I breathe is hot, heavy, thick, and the working of my lungs will become difficult, impossible, unless the store of air is renewed.
I extend my arms and feel about me, and this is what I conclude: I am in a compartment with sheet-iron walls, which cannot measure more than four cubic yards.

I can feel that the walls are of bolted plates, like the sides of a ship's water-tight compartment.
I can feel that the entrance to it is by a door on one side, for the hinges protrude somewhat.