Inner sex crimes. A fancywork of violence and spite. Those were the shames of his adolescence. If everyone here knew his present thoughts, if that message in greenish cipher that moved across the board represented the read-outs of Lyle Wynant, it would be mental debris alone that caused him humiliation, all the unwordable rubble, the glass, rags and paper of his tiny indefinable manias. The conversations he had with himself, straphanging in a tunnel. All the ceremonial patterns, the soul's household chores. These were far more revealing, he believed, than some routine incest variation. There was more noise from the floor as Xerox appeared on the board. Male and female messengers flirted in transit. The paper waste accumulated. It was probably not an uncommon feeling among older children and adolescents that everyone knows your thoughts. It put you at the center of things, although in a passive and frightening way. They know but do not show it. When things slowed down he went to the smoking area just beyond post 1. Frank McKechme was in there, held-stripping a cigarette.

"I'm in no mood.”

"Neither am I.”

"It's total decay.”

"What are we talking about?" Lyle said.

"The outside world.”

"Is it still there? I thought we'd effectively negated it. I thought that was the upshot.”

"I'm walking around seeing death masks. This, that, the other. My wife is having tests. They take tissue from underneath the arm. My brother is also out there with his phone calls. I'm seeing visions, Lyle.”

"Don't go home.”

"I understand you people have something to look at these days.”

"What's that?”

"Zeltner's new sec'y. I understand it walks and talks.”

"I haven't been over yet this week.”

"Living quiff, I hear. I wish you'd check that out and tell me about it. I have to live somehow. I'm in no mood for what's out there. She goes for more tests tomorrow. Fucking doctor says it could be cancer.”