RECORD THIRTY-EIGHT
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TITLE—PERHAPS THE WHOLE SYNOPSIS MAY BE CALLED A CAST-OFF CIGARETTE-BUTT.
I awoke. A bright glare painful to look at. I half closed my eyes. My head seemed filled with some caustic blue smoke. Everything was enveloped in fog and through the fog:
“But I did not turn on the light ... then how is it....”
I jumped up. At the table, leaning her chin on her hand and smiling, was I-330, looking at me.
She was at the very table at which I am now writing. Those ten or fifteen minutes are already behind me, cruelly twisted into a very firm spring. Yet it seems to me that the door closed after her only a second ago and that I could still overtake her and grasp her hand,—and that she might laugh out and say....
I-330 was at the table. I rushed towards her.
