"I'm not making any," Haendl said grimly.
* * * * *
Citizen Germyn, feeling utterly tainted with the scent of the Wolf
in his home, tossed in his bed, sleepless. His eyes were wide open,
staring at the dark ceiling. He could hear his wife's decorous
breathing from the foot of the bed--soft and regular, it should have
been lulling him to sleep.
It was not. Sleep was very far away.
Germyn was a brave enough man, as courage is measured among Citizens.
That is to say, he had never been afraid, though it was true that there
had been very little occasion. But he was afraid now. He didn't want to
be Translated.
The Wolf, Haendl, had put his finger on it: _Perhaps you still think
Translation is a fulfillment._ Translation--the reward of Meditation,
the gift bestowed on only a handful of gloriously transfigured persons.
That was one thing. But the sort of Translation that was now involved
was nothing like that--not if it happened to children; not if it
happened to Gala Tropile; not if it happened to a machine.
And Glenn Tropile was involved in it.
Germyn turned restlessly.
If people who knew Glenn Tropile were likely to be Translated, and
people who Meditated on Connectivity were likely to be Translated, then
people who knew Glenn Tropile and didn't want to be Translated had
better not Meditate on Connectivity.
It was very difficult to _not_ think of Connectivity.
Endlessly he calculated sums in arithmetic in his mind, recited the
Five Regulations, composed Greeting Poems and Verses on Viewing.
And endlessly he kept coming back to Tropile, to Translation, to
Connectivity. He didn't _want_ to be Translated. But still the thought
had a certain lure. What was it like? Did it hurt?
Well, probably not, he speculated. It was very fast, according to
Haendl's report--if you could believe what an admitted Son of the Wolf
reported. But Germyn had to.
Well, if it was fast--at that kind of speed, he thought, perhaps you
would die instantly. Maybe Tropile was dead. Was that possible? No, it
didn't seem so; after all, there was the fact of the connection between
Tropile and so many of the recently Translated. What was the connection
there? Or, generalizing, what connections were involved in--
He rescued himself from the dread word and summoned up the first image
that came to mind. It happened to be Tropile's wife--Gala Tropile, who
had disappeared herself, in this very room.
Gala Tropile. He stuck close to the thought of her, a little pleased
with himself. That was the trick of _not_ thinking of Connectivity--to
think so hard and fully of something else as to leave no room in the
mind for the unwanted thought. He pictured every line of her face,
every wave of her stringy hair....
It was very easy that way. He was pleased.