Charles Render sat before the ninety white buttons and the two red ones, not really looking at any of them. His right arm moved in its soundless sling, across the lap-level surface of the console—pushing some of the buttons, skipping over others, moving on, retracing its path to press the next in the order of the Recall Series.
Sensations throttled, emotions reduced to nothing, Representative Erikson knew the oblivion of the womb.
There was a soft click.
Render's hand had glided to the end of the bottom row
of buttons. An act of conscious intent—will, if you like— was required to push the red button.
Render freed his arm and lifted off his crown of Medusa-hair leads and microminiature circuitry. He slid from behind his desk-couch and raised the hood. He walked to the window and transpared it, fingering forth a cigarette.
One minute in the ro-womb, he decided. No more. This is a crucial one... Hope it doesn't snow till later—these clouds look mean . ..
It was smooth yellow trellises and high towers, glassy and gray, all smoldering into evening under a shale-colored sky; the city was squared volcanic islands, glowing in the end-of-day light, rumbling deep down under the earth; it was fat, incessant rivers of traffic, rushing.
Render turned away from the window and approached the great egg that lay beside his desk, smooth and glittering. It threw back a reflection that smashed all aquilinity from his nose, turned his eyes to gray saucers, transformed his hair into a light-streaked skyline; his reddish necktie became the wide tongue of a ghoul.
He smiled, reached across the desk. He pressed the second red button.