The trouble shooter finished and the workman took his place. His arms moved ceaselessly again.
He was a tall man, slim and wiry, his dress identical to that of the others—grey coveralls that fit like tights.
Suddenly a red light flashed in his eyes and he began to tremble. He took two steps backward. The trouble shooter moved into the empty space.
The man stood for a moment, like a soldier at attention, turned and walked smartly toward the mouth of a corridor.
The silence was like a motion picture with a dead sound track. There was only motion—and him walking down the line of machines where the hands reached out, working, working.
In the corridor now, he looked straight ahead, marching. The walls glowed like water beneath a shallow sea.
He raised his arm, felt the door strike and the heel of his hand; felt it swing open; saw the desk suspended from the ceiling by luminous, silver chains.
A man with a massive, white-maned head and a pink, smiling face rose from behind the desk. His suit was like that of a general.
"Well, Twenty-three." The Superfather stared down at the dossier on his desk. "Two mistakes in three months. Too bad. Just when you were on your way to the head of the machine room."
"I don't know what's the matter with me," said Twenty-three.