"We will not be hungry if we go outside," he said. "We can eat there."
"We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken," Chuls said dully.
Crifer shrilled, "Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again."
"No," Rikud assured him. "It won't."
"Then you broke it and I hate you," said Crifer. "We should break you, too, to show you how it is to be broken."
"We must go outside—through the viewport." Rikud listened to the odd gurgling sound his stomach made.
A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heard Crifer's voice. "I have Rikud's head." The voice was nasty, hostile.
Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he had broken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearer to understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.
The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face. "I hit him! I hit him!"
Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someone was on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, and he did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, "Let us do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery." Rikud ran. In the darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.