Motionless I sat at the table， but everything around me seemed to be moving， as if the less than microscopic movements of the atoms had suddenly been magnified millions of times； I saw the walls trembling， my pen trembling， and the letters swinging and fusing together. "To hide them！ But where？" Glass all around. "To burn them？" But they would notice the fire through the corridor and in the neighboring room. Besides， I felt unable， I felt too weak， to destroy this torturing and perhaps dearest piece of my own self....
Voices from a distance （from the corridor）， and steps. I had time only to snatch a handful of pages and put them under me and then， as if soldered to the armchair—every atom of which was quivering—I remained sitting， while the floor under my feet rolled like the deck of a ship， up and down....
All shrunk together and hidden under the awning of my own forehead， like that messenger， I watched them stealthily； they were going from room to room， beginning at the right end of the corridor. Nearer...nearer....I saw that some sat in their rooms， torpid like me； others would jump up and open their doors wide—lucky ones！ If only I， too， could....
"The Well-Doer is the most perfect fumigation humanity needs； consequently， no peristalsis in the organism of the United State could...."I was writing this nonsense， pressing my trembling pen hard， and lower and lower my head bent over the table， and within me some sort of crazy forge...With my back I was listening....and I heard the click of the doorknob.... A current of fresh air....My armchair was dancing a mad dance .... Only then， and even then with difficulty， I tore myself away from the page and turned my head in the direction of the newcomers （how difficult it is to play a foul game！）. In front of all was S-， morose， silent， his eyes swiftly drilling deep shafts within me， within my armchair， and within the pages which were twitching in my hands. Then for a second—familiar， everyday faces at the door； one of them separated itself from the rest with its bulging， pinkish-brown gills....
At once I recalled everything that had happened in the same room half an hour ago， and it was clear to me that they would presently...
All my being was shriveling and pulsating in that fortunately opaque part of my body with which I was covering the manuscript. U-came up to S-， gently plucked his sleeve， and said in a low voice：
"This is D-503， the builder of the Integral. You have probably heard of him. He is always like that， at his desk—does not spare himself at all！"
... And I thought... What a dear， wonderful woman！...
S- slid up to me， bent over my shoulder toward the table. I covered the lines I had written with my elbow， but he shouted severely：
"Show us at once what you have there， please！"
Dying with shame， I held out the sheet of paper. He read it over， and I noticed a tiny smile jump out of his eyes， scamper down his face， and， slightly wagging it tail， perch upon the right angle of his mouth....
"Somewhat ambiguous， yet....Well， you may continue； we shall not disturb you any further."
He went splashing toward the door as if in a ditch of water. And with every step of his I felt coming back to me my legs， my arms， my fingers—my soul again distributed itself evenly throughout my whole body； I breathed....
The last thing： U- lingered in my room to come back to me and say right in my ear， in a whisper： "It is lucky for you that I..."
I did not understand. What did she mean by that？ The same evening I learned that they had led away three Numbers， although nobody speaks aloud about it， or about anything that happened. This ostensible silence is due to the educational influence of the Guardians who are ever present among us. Conversations deal chiefly with the quick fall of the barometer and the forthcoming change in the weather.