"No! No, they can't, you can't do that to me." A highly unoriginal protest. Mr. Boswell made a mild sound of disapproval. At such times he regretted the limitations of construction that did not permit him a shake of the head. "Years? Decades? No! I can't stand it; I can't, I won't. I'll find a way out. I'll make a way." "Suicide? Oh now, my boy, please. To take your own life? A shameful thing. And not at all fair to my firm." "No, not suicide. I--I'll break out. Damn you, I will. I'll grab your damned wire--I can reach it from here; I'll pull your plug. You'll have to take me out of here or I'll let your juice run out and you'll die. Boswell, you're going to hide me under that machinery of yours and take me out." "Oh? But my boy--what then?" "Then I'll be out, that's what." "Then you will be out. Out of here; out in the street; out of protective custody; outside the law. You would be alone then, lad; alone with your guilt, cast out, apart from society and the sound, stable order you find here. And would not every decent man's hand be against you? Think, my boy, what that means. Could you face it?" During these remarks, as Jay 7 clung, hot-eyed and shaking to the bars, Mr. Boswell had backed prudently well away, out of reach from the cell door. "Yes! I don't care. To hell with you; to hell with all of them. I've got to get out of here. Come back, you coward. I tell you I've got to get out, out, out!" Mr. Boswell backed across the corridor and pulled his plug from the socket. The wire rolled back neatly on the spool. "Time--no more time; other clients." He peered myopically through thick lenses back toward the cell. "Please, lad--it pains me to hear you talk so wildly." "I've got to get out, you hear? Out!" * * * * * "Well, my boy, if it has become such a phobia with you and you feel you have got to do so foolish a thing ... why don't you just walk out?" "Walk out? What in hell are you talking about? How can I walk out of this cell?" "Now, now, boy. You are only in protective custody, to protect you from yourself, from an outraged society, you understand. That cell isn't locked. Never has been. You know that." "That's a lie!" The man, Jay 7, threw himself against the bars, pressed against them, every muscle straining. "It's locked, locked. You can see. It won't open." "Now, now," said Mr. Boswell again, starting to swing around on his wheels, "that door opens inward. You get your food through it, your work; the other--ah--amenities, girls ... eh? Nobody ever unlocks that door, isn't that right? They all just push it open. Right? Eh? It opens in." "You lie. It's a damned, rotten, filthy lie." He was yelling, shaking, rattling the door; pushing at the door.