He tried thinking of other things, to remember his feelings from the time of the blast to the day he had passed through the new brick wall into the project. But all he got was a blur of fear. Fear then, fear now, and fear until the day they would kill him.
"Sick of fear!" a voice rusty from disuse rasped out. "Sick of the whole mess!"
It was with a sense of complete surprise that he realized his mouth was open and it was his own voice shouting.
"It's over," he rasped and turned around to face a startled, thin-faced woman whose blue eyes peered at him—but not with terror. He looked at her, his mouth sagging open.
"Over for both of us," she whispered, and moved toward him with arms outstretched and trembling.
He tried to turn and run, to save her from further violations, but she grasped his hand.
"George." And she was in his arms. "My third offense—when I stopped walking. There's nothing to lose now."
The shuffling of feet continued about them as they embraced, and she talked hurriedly as if afraid that the few hours before the evening meal would not be enough for all she had to say.
"I've walked behind you all these months. I was sure you would say something if you saw me and I didn't want you to be punished. Each morning I waited until the last moment before leaving the women's dining room—until you came by looking for me. Then I'd walk behind you, sometimes within touching distance. Once I had to wait too long, and then I went to Punitive for the second time. But it was all for nothing. I hoped you would go free, but it was all for nothing."
He kissed her then and she had to stop. When he took his lips from hers, they both turned to the nearest detector bulb. They were being watched, but what difference did a thousand violations make now?