Joe—who had so recently thought it likely that he would die—considered these actions with an icy dislike that was much deeper than anger. It was backed by everything he believed in, everything he had ever wanted, and everything he hoped for. And anger could cool off, but the way he felt about people who would destroy others for their own purposes could not cool off. It was part of him. He thought about it as he worked, with all the noises of the Shed singing in his ears.
A voice said: “Joe.”
He started and turned. Sally stood behind him, looking at him very gravely. She tried to smile.
“Dad told me,” she said, “about the check-up that says you’re all right. May I congratulate you on your being with us for a while?—on the cobalt’s not getting near you?—or the rest of us?”
Joe did not know exactly what to say.
“I’m going inside the Platform,” she told him. “Would you like to come along?”
He wiped his hands on a piece of waste.
“Naturally! My gang is off picking out tools. I can’t do much until they come back.”
He fell into step beside her. They walked toward the Platform. And it was still magic, no matter how often Joe looked at it. It was huge beyond belief, though it was surely not heavy in proportion to its size. Its bright plating shone through the gossamer scaffolding all about it. There was always a faint bluish mist in the air, and there were the marsh-fire lights of welding torches playing here and there. The sounds of the Shed were a steady small tumult in Joe’s ears. He was getting accustomed to them, though.
“How is it you can go around so freely?” he asked abruptly. “I have to be checked and rechecked.”