And presently a key-box hummed and I didn't even look that way. The
stink of my own burning flesh still clung to my nostrils, the dull pain
was still with me, but I didn't care. It was too much. When horror
becomes too great, it stops being horror. The mind is smart. It doesn't
believe; it doesn't register. The curve of sensation flattens out,
stops, almost.
When such horror looms, you go on doing whatever you are doing.