“Is it, is it her check?”
“What does it matter? Well, it is hers, yes.”
Something cracked. It must have been the springs of the bed, for O-90 made a slight motion only. She remained sitting, her hands upon her knees.
“Well, quick....” I roughly pressed her hand. A red spot was left on her wrist (tomorrow
it would become purple), where the fluffy, infantile fold.... It was the last.... I turned the switch, my thoughts went out with the light. Darkness, a spark! and I had jumped over the railing, down....
RECORD TWENTY
Discharge
The Material of a Idea
The Zero Rock
Discharge is the best word for it. Now I see that it was actually like an electric discharge. The pulse of my last few days had been becoming dryer and dryer, more and more frequent, more intense. The opposite poles had been drawing nearer and nearer and already I could hear the dry crackling; one millimeter more, and—an explosion! Then silence.
Within me there is quiet now and emptiness like that of a house after everybody has left, when one lies ill, all alone and hears so clearly the distinct, metallic, tick-tock of thoughts.
Perhaps that “discharge” cured me at last of my torturing “soul.” Again I am like all of us. At least at this moment as I write, I can see as it were, without any pain in my mental eye, how O-90 is brought to the steps of the Cube; or I see her in the Gas Bell. And if there in the Operation Department she should give my name,—I do not care. Piously and gratefully I should kiss the punishing hand of the Well-Doer at the last moment. I have this right in regard to the United State: to receive my punishment. And I shall not