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           ItcrippledourconsciousnesssocompletelythatIwonderwehadtheresidualsensetodimourtorchesasplanned,andtostriketherighttunneltowardthedeadcity. Instinctalonemusthavecarriedusthrough—perhapsbetterthanreasoncouldhavedone;thoughifthatwaswhatsavedus,wepaidahighprice. Ofreasonwecertainlyhadlittleenoughleft. 

           Danforthwastotallyunstrung,andthefirstthingIrememberoftherestofthejourneywashearinghimlightheadedlychantanhystericalformulainwhichIaloneofmankindcouldhavefoundanythingbutinsaneirrelevance. Itreverberatedinfalsettoechoesamongthesquawksofthepenguins;reverberatedthroughthevaultingsahead,and—thankGod—throughthenowemptyvaultingsbehind. Hecouldnothavebegunitatonce—elsewewouldnothavebeenaliveandblindlyracing. Ishuddertothinkofwhatashadeofdifferenceinhisnervousreactionsmighthavebrought. 

           "SouthStationUnder—WashingtonUnder—ParkStreetUnder—Kendall—Central—Harvard—" ThepoorfellowwaschantingthefamiliarstationsoftheBoston–CambridgetunnelthatburrowedthroughourpeacefulnativesoilthousandsofmilesawayinNewEngland,yettometheritualhadneitherirrelevancenorhomefeeling. Ithadonlyhorror,becauseIknewunerringlythemonstrous,nefandousanalogythathadsuggestedit. Wehadexpected,uponlookingback,toseeaterribleandincrediblemovingentityifthemistswerethinenough;butofthatentitywehadformedaclearidea. Whatwedidsee—forthemistswereindeedalltoomalignlythinned—wassomethingaltogetherdifferent,andimmeasurablymorehideousanddetestable.