"Oh, no!" Toffee said.
"Good grief!" Marc murmured. He gazed out the window at the passing city, the people, the shops, cars, sky-scrapers. He tried to imagine all these things torn loose from the earth, twisting and turning into space. His mind revolted before the picture. The idea was too terrifying for words. Marc trembled with horror. That he should be the one to provide the instrument by which such a fantasy could be set into motion was too awful to contemplate.
"You can't!" he breathed. "You can't be human and even think of such a thing!"
"You see!" Cecil said, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. "You're already impressed, and we haven't even started. Of course, if you want, we'll cut you in on the deal. It would be worth it to get your cooperation." He turned to Toffee who was staring at him with unguarded loathing. "You, too."
"I'd rather die," Toffee said.
"Well," Cecil shrugged, "if you'd really rather, it can be arranged."
"It won't work!" Marc said desperately. "It's preposterous!"
"It worked with you, didn't it?" Cecil pointed out.
Marc thought back to his frenzied flight to the top of the Wynant. A chill passed through him; anything was possible.
"But why the whole city?" he asked. "Why not just a building or a retired battleship?"