The police-frequency speaker suddenly rattled, as if someone shouted into a microphone.
"All police cars! Paras have broken through a building wall on the west side! They're pouring into the Center! All cars rush! Set blasters at full power and use them! Drive them back or kill them!"
The grid operator turned angry, bitter eyes upon Calhoun.
"The paras—we paras!—don't want to be cured!" he said fiercely. "Who'd want to be normal again and remember when he ate scavengers? I haven't yet, but—who'd be able to talk to a man he knew had devoured ... devoured—" The grid operator swallowed. "We paras want everybody to be like us, so we can endure being what we are! We can't take it any other way—except by dying!"
He stood up. He reached for the blaster Calhoun had put aside when he changed from the clothes he'd worn in the city.
"...And I'll take it that way!"
Calhoun whirled. His fist snapped out. The grid operator reeled out. The blaster dropped from his hand. Murgatroyd cried out shrilly, from his cubbyhole. He hated violence, did Murgatroyd.
Calhoun stood over the operator, raging:
"It's not that bad yet! You haven't yawned once! You can stand the need for monstrousness for a long while yet! And I need you!"
He turned away. The President's voice boomed. It cut off abruptly. Another voice took its place. And this was the bland and unctuous voice of Dr. Lett.