opped discussing their attempts on
me; I no longer found out what they were doing and how they hoped to
accomplish the act. They showed the helplessness that comes of failure,
and this feeling of utter futility was transmitted to me.

At first I was mentally frantic at the idea of failure, but as the
futile days wore on and the fact was practically shoved down my throat,
I was forced to admit that there was no future for Steve Cornell.

I began at that time to look forward to my visit to reorientation.

Reorientation is a form of mental suicide. Once reoriented, the problems
that make life intolerable are forgotten, your personality is changed,
your grasp of everything is revised, your appreciation of all things
comes from an entirely new angle. You are a new person.

Then one morning I faced my image in the mirror and came to the
conclusion that if I couldn't be Me, I didn't want to be Somebody Else.
It is no good to be alive if I am not me, I told my image, who
obediently agreed with me.

I didn't even wait to argue with Me. I just went out and got into my car
and sloped. It was not hard; everybody in Homestead trusted me.

XIV

I left homestead with a half-formed idea that I was going to visit
Bruce, Wisconsin, long enough to say goodbye to Catherine and to release
her from any matrimonial involvement she may have felt binding. I did
not relish this idea, but I felt that getting it out, done, and agreed
was only a duty.

But as I hit the road and had time to think, I knew that my half-formed
intention was a sort of martyrdom; I was going to renounce myself in a
fine welter of tears and then go staggering off into the setting sun to
die of my mental wounds. I took careful stock of myself and faced the
fact that my half-baked idea was a sort of suicide-wish; walking into
any Mekstrom way station now was just asking for capture and a fast trip
to their reorientation rooms. The facts of my failure and my
taking-of-leave would be indication enough for Catherine that I was
bowing out. It would be better for Catherine, too, to avoid a fine,
high-strung, emotional scene. I remembered the little bawling session in
the Harrison living room that night; Catherine would not die for want of
a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. In fact, as she'd said
pragmatically, well balanced people never die of broken hearts.

Having finally convinced myself of the validity of this piece of obvious
logic, I suddenly felt a lot