The Bell
The Mirror—like Sea
I Am to Bum Eternally
I was walking on the dock where the Integral is being built， when the Second Builder came to meet me. His face， as usual， was round and white， a porcelain plate. When he speaks it seems as if he serves you a plate of something unbearably tasty.
"You chose to be ill， and without the Chief we had sort of an accident yesterday."
"An accident？"
"Yes， sir. We finished the bell and started to let it down， and imagine； the men caught a male without a number. How he got in I can"t make out. They took him to the Operation Department. Oh， they"ll get the answers out of the fellow there； "why" and "how，" etc....He smiled delightedly.
Our best and most experienced physicians work in the Operation Department under the direct supervision of the Well-Doer himself. They have all kinds of instruments， but the best of all is the Gas Bell. The procedure is taken from an ancient experiment of elementary physics： they used to put a rat under a gas bell and gradually pump out the air； the air becomes more and more rarefied， and... you know the rest.
But our Gas Bell is certainly a more perfect apparatus， and it is used in combination with different gases. Furthermore， we don"t torture a defenseless animal as the ancients did. We use it for a higher purpose： to guard the security of the United State—in other words， the happiness of millions. About five centuries ago， when the work of the Operation Department was only beginning， there were yet to be found some fools who compared our Operation Department with the ancient Inquisition. But this is as absurd as to compare a surgeon performing a tracheotomy with a highway cutthroat. Both use a knife， perhaps the same kind of knife， both do the same thing， viz.， cut the throat of a living man； yet one is a well-doer， the other is a murderer； one is marked plus， the other minus....All this becomes perfectly clear in one second， in one turn of our wheel of logic， the teeth of which engage that minus， turn it upward， and thus change its aspect.
One other matter is somewhat different： the ring in the door was still oscillating， apparently the door had just closed， yet she， I-330， had disappeared， she was not there！ The wheel of logic could not turn this fact. A dream？ But even now I still feel in my right shoulder that incomprehensibly sweet pain of I-330 near me in the fog， pressing herself against me. "Thou lovest fog？" Yes， I love the fog， too. I love everything， and everything appears to me wonderful， new， tense； everything is so good！...
"So good，" I said aloud.
"Good？" The porcelain eyes bulged out. "What good do you find in that？ If that man without a number contrived to sneak in， it means that there are others around here， everywhere， all the time， here around the Integral， they—"
"Whom do you mean by "they"？"
"How do I know who？ But I sense them， all the time."
"Have you heard about the new operation which has been invented？ I mean the surgical removal of fancy？" （There really were rumors of late about something of the sort.）
"No， I haven"t. What has that to do with it？"
"Merely this： if I were you， I should go and ask to have this operation performed upon me. "
The plate distinctly expressed something lemonlike， sour. Poor fellow！ He took offense if one even hinted that he might possess imagination. Well， a week ago I， too， would have taken offense at such a hint. Not now though， for I know that I have imagination； that is what my illness consists of. And more than that： I know that it is a wonderful illness—one does not want to be cured， simply does not want to！
We ascended the glass steps； the world spread itself below us like the palm of a hand.