And then the bulls pulled him out of the Director's office, and with Carter behind, walked him
up the Silver Stairs out of the Pit. Joe had not permitted himself of ever walking up the Silver Stairs.
Too much the consummation, devoutly to be wished, he'd decided. Better to embrace the likelihood of
never seeing the sun again, he'd decided. Better to sweat under the ground and then lie still there. Let
it all be over.
Thus, traversing these stairs, with bulls holding him by the elbows and shackles still round his
wrists, felt entirely unreal. Nor did he experience the joy of release or of anticipation. He had been
down too long, had become used to the parameters of this underground camp for Prisoners held
Beyond Cessation of Hostilities in this Year of Our Lord, Twenty-Forty...what year was it again? Joe not
only couldn't remember the year, he couldn't remember the last time he had remembered it. Like the
rest of his life Before the War, it had ceased to matter.
And he was standing at the top of the stairs, and the bull on the left shoved the door violently,
and the light flooded his eyes, stinging, shuddering. His face darted away, and he might have sought
the safety of the darkness of the Pit if he had been free to do so, but the bulls still had him, so he stood
wincing as they took off his cuffs and shoved him, staggering, into the fresh air. Then they went back
down and closed the door behind him. They did not say a word as they did so.
Carter drew a blue pack of cigarettes from his coat, smacked them on his palm, unwound the
cellophane strip, and let it dangle in the breeze. It floated away and was gone. Carter drew a smoke, lit
it on a brushed-nickel Zippo, and offered it to Joe. While Joe took a drag off of it, he lit another. Then
he said to Joe. "I've got five more stops to make before I turn back for the Commonwealth."
"How far is the Commonwealth?"
"Not far. The Susquehanna is where we'll cross over it. That's near where you're from, right?"
"Yeah."