He was standing in front of the leaded window of Assembly Bay 17, hands gloved by the metal manipulators, which felt clammy and slippery to him now. On either side of him, dozens of other men worked straining at identical stations, each identically uniformed in white with close- fitting cap and earphones. He held still for a moment, and inside the lead-shielded assembly bay, his remote mechanical counterpart hands—the waldoes—stopped in mid-motion. They were holding a tiny capsule of radioactives that would activate the chrome robot lying inert beneath the skeletal metal arms of the waldoes.

“What’s the trouble?”

“Assembly Bay 17, are you all right?”

“Answer, 1138.”

“I’m okay,” THX said.

A million voices were buzzing in his earphones, orders, queries, conversations from all over the assembly center. His head throbbed.

“Please keep your trailing edge circuits from touching the floor. Do not present solid circuits for validation.”

“If you have been issued circuit cards with the new D code function, make sure that the pin array is compatible with earlier models.”

“Recycle the step sequencer, 2434. Repeat, recycle step sequencer.”

“Multiphase analysis, please.”

“You’re in the green, station 6. Go ahead.”

Another three hours, THX thought. Three more hours and I’ll be home. And then he added, with LUH. He saw her face, felt the whisper of her breath on his cheek.

Assembly 17, what’s the holdup?”

“Sorry,” he muttered. Keep your mind on your work!

“Grid control, this is assembly central. Bay 17 initiating thermal transfer. Yellow alert.”

“Read you, central. Yellow alert, thermal transfer. Blast and radiation procedures. Go ahead, bay 17.”

In another part of the vast underground center, LUH sat at an observer’s desk, eyes flickering over the fifty screens, fingers touching out an elaborate sonata of electronic responses to people’s needs and fears.