Eastern seaboard have started funneling their waste to us for deactivation, and Washington would dearly like to open that up in the next ten years to everything this side of the Mississippi. Having even one Spoonbender out of commission just slows things up and affects our efficiency. Look, if it'll make you feel better, we don't have to terminate right away. We've got two or three in the tanks that are almost ready; we'll have one of them just sub for him while Barenburg looks him over. Maybe it'll be something simple and he can go back on line."

"You don't really believe that," Forester said evenly. "You're just proposing a two-stage termination."

"Forester—" Kincaid began, but was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps at the door.

"Here I am," Dr. Barenburg announced, weaving just slightly as he gripped the doorjamb.

"Oh, hell," Kincaid muttered. "Drunk again."

Forester looked away in obscure embarrassment as Barenburg clumped in... and was thus the only one who saw the spasm of emotion flicker across Twenty-Seven's deformed face.

—

TERROR!

I jerk back, sliding my touch back along the movement/flow as quickly as possible. I somehow know that I could withdraw faster if I let go, but I am too afraid to do so. But finally I am back.

For a long time I am too frightened even to try and think. I long to curl myself up, but I cannot do so with the pressures on me. My work remains untouched, but I do not care.

Gradually, the terror lessens, leaving me strangely weak but able to try and understand what happened. I remember that I found one end of the movement/flow, a box inside which the movement/flow merged with a bewildering group of others. I continued on, and entered a large empty space. It frightened me at first—so much emptiness!—but without knowing why I moved on, seeking for something to touch.