Only for that inevitable percentage who would die in great pain did she have any recognizable sympathy. She had a duty, else she herself would experience greater and greater pain.
"You'd better come along with us, Mary baby," Jonothan said. He reached for her, while the others yelled at him. The intercom itself was toned with terror that was in the walls and in every man's eyes and his voice and the stance of his body.
Mary giggled. She started a kind of disarming dance. But this time it did not excite the laughter and general response it usually did.
Her stomach turned sickeningly as she felt the release, the ribbon fluttering and the cap falling. The thud and the bright shining spin of the gun over the mosaicked floor. The sling had broken.
She danced toward it.
Jonothan yelled, but the voices of the others snapped off into a pulsing silence. Then an incredulous murmur trickled over the floor.
"Mary—what are you doing with that? Mary—stop—wait, Mary—"
Desperately, Jonothan dived to the floor. He clawed. He kicked with his frantic feet for traction on the floor. He screamed at her as he pawed to reach the gun. But she leaped over him and turned with the gun ready.
Jonothan was slowly standing up. His face was white. His lips moved. His throat trembled. But no words came out.
Behind him, a voice shivered. "Give us the gun, Mary."