He thought of his father talking to him—the granite-faced old man—and he thought of the man, far back, who had written the Letter, and he thought of all the others who had passed it on, committing heresy for the sake of truth, for the sake of knowledge and salvation.
There had been too much ventured, too much dared and braved, too many lonely nights of wondering if what one did was right, to lose it now because of squeamishness or guilt.
He walked out from the wall and grasped the body and slung it on his shoulder.
It dangled.
It gurgled.
Something wet and warm trickled down his back. He gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. And he staggered along beneath his burden, climbing the long-stilled escalators, clopping along the corridors, heading for the engine room.
At last he reached the door and laid the burden down to fumble for the keys.
He found them and selected the right one and turned it in the door, and when he pushed against the door the door swung slowly open. A gust of warm air came out and slapped him in the face. Lights glowed brightly and there was a humming song of power and the whine of spinning metal.
He reached down and lifted Joe again and went in and closed the door. He stood staring down the long paths that ran between the great machines.
There was one machine that spun, and he recognized it—a gyroscope, a stabilizer hanging in its gymbals, humming to itself.