I felt thousands of eyes bulging with horror fixed upon me， but that only added a sort of desperately joyful power to that wild being with hairy paws which arose in me and ran faster and faster. Two more steps—she turned around—
I saw a quivering face covered with freckles， red eye-brows....It was not she！ Not I-330！
A rabid， quivering joy took hold of me. I wanted to shout something like： "Catch her！ Get her， that—" But I heard only my whisper. A heavy hand was already upon my shoulder； I was caught and led away. I tried to explain to them：
"But listen， you must understand that I thought that..."
But could I explain even to myself all the sickness which I have described in these pages？ My light went out； I waited obediently. As a leaf that is torn from its branch by a sudden gust of wind falls humbly， but on its way down turns and tries to catch every little branch， every fork， every knot， so I tried to catch every one of the silent， globe-like heads， or the transparent ice of the walls， or the blue needle of the Accumulating Tower which seemed to pierce the clouds.
At that moment， when a heavy curtain was about to separate me from this beautiful world， I noticed not far away a familiar， enormous head gliding over the mirror surface of the pavement and wagging its winglike ears. I heard a familiar， flat voice：
"I deem it my duty to testify that Number D-503 is ill and is unable to regulate his emotions. Moreover， I am sure that he was led by natural indignation—"
"Yes！ Yes！" I exclaimed. I even shouted， "Catch her！""
From behind me： "You did not shout anything."
"No， but I wanted to. I swear by the Well-Doer I wanted to！"
For a second I was bored through by the gray， cold， drill eyes. I don"t know whether he believed that what I said was the truth （almost！）， or whether he had some secret reason for sparing me for a while， but he wrote a short note， handed it to one of those who had held me， and again I was free. That is， I was again included in the orderly， endless Assyrian rows of Numbers.
The quadrangle， the freckled face， and the temple with the map of blue veinlets disappeared forever around the corner. We walked again—a million-headed body； and in each one of us resided that humble joyfulness with which in all probability molecules， atoms， and phagocytes live.
In the ancient days the Christians understood this feeling； they are our only， though very imperfect， direct fore-runners. The greatness of the "Church of the United Flock" was known to them. They knew that resignation is virtue， and pride a vice； that "We" is from "God，" "I，" from the devil.
I was walking， keeping step with the others yet separated from them. I was still trembling from the emotion just felt， like a bridge over which a thundering ancient steel train has passed a moment before. I felt myself. To feel one"s self， to be conscious of one"s personality， is the lot of an eye inflamed by a cinder， or an infected finger， or a bad tooth. A healthy eye， or finger， or tooth is not felt； it is nonexistent， as it were. Is it not clear， then， that consciousness of oneself is a sickness？
Apparently I am no longer a phagocyte which quietly， in a businesslike way， devours microbes （microbes with freckled faces and blue temples）； apparently I am myself a microbe， and she， too， I-330， is a microbe， a wonderful， diabolic microbe！ It is quite possible that there are already thousands of such microbes among us， still pretending to be phagocytes， as I pretend. What if today"s accident， although in itself not important， is only a beginning， only the first meteorite of a shower of burning and thundering stones which the infinite may have poured out upon our glass paradise？
