Just now, a fire zips past my left shoulder. Good Jesus, they’re shooting at us now! I climb to my left. And up now. I fiddle with the wall to position myself below an open window and I pull myself in. I sprint across the hall, filled with vials and beakers and tubes of fetuses unconcerned with thought quite yet. The hall fills with darkness as the lights flush out and I think of how absolutely silly the Thought Police are in their pursuit. And some one of them, some desperate bright spiteful one of them, will suddenly think all on a sorry debased instant, “He’s on the 66th! Go for the 66th! Move up and lose the other one! Copters will snag ’im! Concern ourselves with the next fleeting subject!”