“Nine thirty-five, and twenty-one seconds,” Carlson read.

  “Do you hear that?” he called out, shaking his fist at anything. “Ninety-three seconds! I made you live for ninety-three seconds!”

  Then he covered his face against the darkness and was silent.

  After a long while he descended the stairway, walked the belt, and moved through the long hallway and out of the Building. As he headed back toward the mountains he promised himself—again—that he would never return.

 

 

  Roger Zelazny, The Doors Of His Face, The Lamps Of His Mouth

 

 

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