“My pass,” repeated 9009 doggedly; “you didn’t give me no pass.”
“You lie,” said Jennings evenly; “how many passes do you want?”
9009’s hand dropped; then rose again in mute begging gesture.
“Move on,” Jennings ordered.
The striped line surged forward, and 9009, forced through the door, passed out into the sunlit yard.
It was warm; the sunshine was a golden downpour; the breeze, rolling languidly over the wall, fell into the yard heavy with the scent of wet earth and lush grass; a bee, afloat upon it, came buzzing from the outer world and thrice circled 9009 with its murmur, like a consolatory secret. And the earth, hard-beaten though it was by thousands of clumsy brogans, was springy under foot, elastic as steel and concrete were not; and the dome above was high and blue, and away up at its apex was a little white cloud. When you looked up at the little white cloud, it seemed to recede, farther and farther
