Somewhere in the background figures with their heads drawn in were hastily rushing by and into the houses. In the middle of the pavements was a mass of those who had already been operated upon； they moved toward the west...
...Hairy bunches of rays around the lips and eyes... I grasped his hands：
"Tell me. Where is she？ Where is I-3307 There？ Beyond the Wall， or ...？ I must... Do you hear me？ At once... I cannot..."
"Here！" he shouted in a happy， drunken voice， showing strong yellow teeth， "here in town， and she is acting！ Oh， we are doing great work！"
Who are those "we"？ Who am I？
There were about fifty around him. Like him， they seemed to have crawled out from under their foreheads. They were loud， cheerful， strong-toothed， swallowing the stormy wind. With their simple not at all terrible-looking electrocutors （where did they get them？）， they started to the west， toward the operated ones， encircling them， keeping parallel to avenue Forty-eight...
Stumbling against the tightly drawn ropes woven by the wind， I was running to her. What for？ I did not know. I was stumbling... Empty streets... The city seemed foreign， wild， filled with the ceaseless， triumphant hubbub of the birds. It seemed like the end of the world， Doomsday.
Through the glass of the walls in quite a few houses （this cut into my mind）， I saw male and female Numbers in shameless embraces—without curtains lowered， without pink checks， in the middle of the day！...
The house—her house； the door ajar. The lobby， the control desk， all were empty. The elevator had stopped in the middle of its shaft. I ran panting up the endless stairs. The corridor. Like the spokes of a wheel figures on the doors dashed past my eyes： 320， 326， 330—I-330！ Through the glass wall I could see everything in her room upside down， confused， creased： the table overturned， its legs in the air like a beast； the bed absurdly placed away from the wall， obliquely； strewn over the floor—fallen， trodden petals of pink checks.
I bent over and picked up one， two， three of them； all bore the name D-503. I was on all of them， drops of myself， of my molten， poured-out self. And that was all— that was left...
Somehow I felt they should not lie there on the floor and be trodden upon. I gathered a handful of them， put them on the table， and carefully smoothed them out， glanced at them， and... laughed aloud！ I never knew it before but now I know—and you， too， know—that laughter may be of different colors. Laughter is but a distant echo of an explosion within us； it may be the echo of a holiday—red， blue， and golden fireworks—or at times it may represent pieces of human flesh exploded into the air....
I noticed an unfamiliar name on some of the pink checks. I do not remember the figures but I do remember the letter—F. I brushed the stubs from the table to the floor， stepped on them， on myself， stamped on them with my heels—and went out ...
In the corridor I sat on the window sill in front of her door and waited long and stupidly. An old man appeared. His face was like a pierced， empty bladder with folds； from beneath the puncture something transparent was still slowly dripping. Slowly， vaguely， I realized—tears. And only when the old man was quite far off I came to and exclaimed：
"Please... listen .... Do you know... Number I-330？"
The old man turned around， waved his hand in despair， and stumbled farther away....
I returned home at dusk. On the west side the sky was twitching every second in a pale blue， electric convulsion； a subdued， heavy roar could be heard from that direction. The roofs were covered with black， charred sticks— birds.
I lay down； and instantly， like a heavy beast， sleep came and stifled me....
