The glowlights began to dim and I supposed that since my arrest in the park another day had passed.
Most of all, I wondered. Something had happened to me, something that I could almost feel as a physical change, but I didn't know quite what it was. I knew its results. I knew that I was no longer standard, no longer conformal, no longer well-behaved and moral and an efficient, useful citizen of the State. I hated the State. I hated all States. I hate all efficiency and common sense and hate.
It suddenly came to me that I didn't care whether I was in Southem or Northem, or which of them ruled the world.
I lay there.
And presently a key-box hummed and I didn't even look that way. The stink of my own burning flesh still clung to my nostrils, the dull pain was still with me, but I didn't care. It was too much. When horror becomes too great, it stops being horror. The mind is smart. It doesn't believe; it doesn't register. The curve of sensation flattens out, stops, almost.
When such horror looms, you go on doing whatever you are doing.
I was lying there, so I went on lying there.
"Don't speak," whispered a voice. "Don't ask questions."
Something fumbled at the straps. I turned my head, and two people were in the room. They were thin, and their eyes were overlarge and they were naked and covered with bruises. The fugitives of the park last night!
"What are you doing here?"