murky horizon. 9009, standing in the shadowy alley, saw the three red bars; he knew that in half an hour the day guards would be up, that in half an hour the whole prison would be rising—and a sudden temptation convulsed him.
He saw the guard, alone, upon the wall; an impulse told him to shoot, rush to the wall, climb, jump, rush to freedom, now, on the instant, using the moment’s opportunity. His heart stabbed him with a palpitation, his blood leaped through his veins—and the stock of his rifle sprang to his shoulder.
He stood thus, a long minute, the stock smooth against his cheek, peering, through the crotch of the back-sight, at the white bead held immobile against the dark loom of the guard’s breast, his finger, twitching, crooked about the trigger, while he fought the fight. Finally, with a release of pent-up breath, he lowered the gun. The temptation was gone; his purpose had won; again it was with him, grim, inflexible, unconquerable.
He crept into the narrow gut between the
