“What’s got into me,” whispered 9009; “am I going nuts?”
“I used to get that way,” wheezed back the little man from the darkness above; “lots does it; it’s spells comes on you.”
9009 stretched himself out flatly and took hold of the sides of his bunk. He was afraid. He had caught himself at this sort of thing before; he feared this new impulse which crouched within him now always, hiding stealthily for days to spring out without warning and contort his sinews to action. Two or three times it had roused within him suddenly as, marching in the lock-step line, he stole a look up at the guard on the wall, pacing with his gun loose in hand, like a hunter; it had bidden him rush for the wall. Twice in the jute-mill, with Jennings behind him, it had told him to turn upon the sallow guard—and so loudly, so commandingly had it ordered, that he had almost obeyed before taking other thought. And this time, when at the sound of the guard’s voice he had found himself with hands knotted about his bars, he knew that
