When he had turned from the door to the sink, he had slipped back—from fatigue and sleepiness—into the characteristics of everyday life aboveground; and, having been engaged in the simple act of washing his hands, he had merely taken the next step in the long ritual of routine. He fought free of the spell of habit and looked wonderingly at the sink, trying to remember what it was he had wanted to do so urgently just a few minutes before. Yes, he had wanted a drink of water. He turned on the faucet again, bowled his fingers beneath the flowing stream and, when the water bubbled over the brim of his grouped palms, he bent and pursed his lips and drank in long, slow swallows; he paused, breathing through open lips and teeth, absorbed in the sensations of his body. Finally, he shut off the water and sighed.

His bladder was tight and he faced the wall and lowered his head and fumbled with the fly of his trousers and bent his head and watched a red stream strike the concrete floor. He wrinkled his nostrils against acrid wisps of vapor; though he had been tramping in the sewer, he was particularly careful to step back and not let his wet shoes come in contact with his urine. The water he had drunk made him profoundly drowsy and he wanted to crawl off into some corner and curl up and sleep. He turned from the wall, yawned, listening to the deluge of voices. The old hunger and curiosity returned and he tiptoed slowly into the corridor and went past a shut door, wondering what he would do if someone suddenly stepped out of it. He crept on and the voices swelled louder; he reached the end of the corridor and the voices were a tumult. He came to a narrow, white stone stairway leading circularly upwards into darkness and it was from down this stairway that the tide of voices spilt in a steady volume. There was no question in his mind but that he was going to ascend those steps and see what was happening. He was so excited that the fear of encountering someone did not deter him; he had to go.

Mounting the spiraled staircase, he heard the voices roll as in a steady wave, then leap to a crescendo, only to die away, but always remaining audible. Ahead of him glowed red letters: E – X – I – T. At the top of the steps he paused in front of a black curtain that fluttered uncertainly. In slow motion his left hand parted the folds of the curtain and he eased forward and looked up into a huge, inverted bowl in whose convex depths there gleamed shimmering clusters of distant lights. Hovering in midair, level with his eyes, were many poles of bright light stabbing the hazy air. Sprawling distantly below him was a stretch of human faces, all tilted slightly upward, chanting, shouting, whistling, screaming, laughing. Dangling before these faces, high upon a screen of silver, were jerking shadows. This is a movie, he said. Slow laughter broke from his lips.