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Chapter 4 — Inside the Sphere
Itookthebookfromhishandandread,“TheWorksofWilliamShakespeare”.
Hecolouredslightly.“Myeducationhasbeensopurelyscientific—”hesaidapologetically.
“Neverreadhim?”
“Never.”
“Heknewalittle,youknow—inanirregularsortofway.”
“PreciselywhatIamtold,”saidCavor.
Iassistedhimtoscrewintheglasscoverofthemanhole,andthenhepressedastudtoclosethecorrespondingblindintheoutercase.Thelittleoblongoftwilightvanished.Wewereindarkness.Foratimeneitherofusspoke.Althoughourcasewouldnotbeimpervioustosound,everythingwasverystill.Iperceivedtherewasnothingtogripwhentheshockofourstartshouldcome,andIrealisedthatIshouldbeuncomfortableforwantofachair.
“Whyhavewenochairs?”Iasked.
“I’vesettledallthat,”saidCavor.“Wewon’tneedthem.”
“Whynot?”
“Youwillsee,”hesaid,inthetoneofamanwhorefusestotalk.
Ibecamesilent.SuddenlyithadcometomeclearandvividthatIwasafooltobeinsidethatsphere.Evennow,Iaskedmyself,istotoolatetowithdraw?Theworldoutsidethesphere,Iknew,wouldbecoldandinhospitableenoughforme—forweeksIhadbeenlivingonsubsidiesfromCavor—butafterall,woulditbeascoldastheinfinitezero,asinhospitableasemptyspace?Ifithadnotbeenfortheappearanceofcowardice,IbelievethateventhenIshouldhavemadehimletmeout.ButIhesitatedonthatscore,andhesitated,andgrewfretfulandangry,andthetimepassed.
