When he walked into the street, the sun was warmer. It was a beautiful day; almost summer, he thought, and he breathed deeply. But the smell of fresh growth was not in the air—only the dusty, burnt odor of the ruined city beyond the walls. The sun grew brighter by the minute and he found it increasingly more difficult to see. It was as if the rays shattered into blinding blobs as they struck his eyes. Somehow, he knew he was using his ears more than ever before.
Poor compensation, he thought. There was nothing to hear—no way of finding her by listening. And besides the absence of speech, there was the absence of any sound.
He forced himself to place one leg after another, and all the horror in the world crept into his brain. He wanted to turn around and speak to those in back of him—to stop the one-way tide of stroll and ask some questions. Just when had the last plane blurred by with jets roaring? And when had the Conquerors marched outside the wall, boots thudding, rifles clanking on canteen pack and buckle? When was the last atomic blast—a distant rumble causing the ground to tremble beneath the pavement?
Months; two or even three, it seemed to him. His long legs faltered and he almost stumbled. Then he remembered his one purpose, and pushed the thoughts from his mind.
By alternately hurrying and slowing his steps, he was able to pull alongside some trainees and let others catch up with him. With sidelong glances he tried to find Adele. He had to see her—to convince himself that she had not forgotten the happy years together.
It had been between buildings three and four—the women's living quarters—that he had seen her that first and only time six months ago. He was walking quickly and pulled up beside her. One sidelong glance was exchanged and her face had filled with terror. Then she almost ran from him. He followed, but the weird chase ended after she actually turned to look back.
Afraid she might commit further offenses in her efforts to avoid him, he had slowed his pace to a crawl and soon lost sight of her after turning a few comers. Now his time was running out and he had to see her. She should be wiser in the ways of the camp; they could exchange a glance and separate. But that glance would tell him whether or not she too had become a machine.
If she's alive, a corner of his brain whispered. But he refused to think of her as being dead.
The sun was getting hot and the faces he looked at were indistinguishable in their blurry outlines. Nausea and dizziness returned and he could no longer concentrate on his search.
It's too late, he thought. The second treatment had finished his chances.