When he had finished the cigarette he snuffed it out against the iron side rail of the cot and lay completely motionless for a few moments. Finally he raised his knees and clasped them tight against his chest and then released them.
He rose with an effort, stepped across to where the shards of glass lay upon the floor, squatted and carefully swept them into the palm of his hand. Sitting on the edge of the cot again he sorted through the pieces until he found a large, wedge-shaped segment that was thick and sharp at the apex, thin at the base. He pricked his finger with it.
As he watched the drop of blood form he began to sweat. But he stared at it with fascinated, unafraid eyes. It was perfectly round and dark red, and exulting and trembling, he held the hand up in front of him, massaging the finger until the drop of blood grew larger, and suddenly he doubled up his fist, clenching it and tightening his forearm until the blood vessels stood out bluely, knotted and tumescent at his wrist.
He did what he had to do quickly, with steady fingers, and then he lay back on the cot and dropped his arm over the side so that he would not see the blood. He was not afraid of it, but he did not want to be afraid. He felt no pain; only his pulse seemed to sound loudly in his ears, the palm of his hand tickled and felt hot and sticky, and when he tried to clench his fist once more, his hand was weak.
Sweat prickled coldly all over his body and he relaxed the fingers of his right hand to drop the bit of glass. He closed his eyes and thought about death. He had not thought about death before, but he did not fear it, he only wondered about it. How did it come, he wondered. Was it only an instantaneous blotting out? But it must be more than that; he hoped it would be more. He needed it to be more.
How does it come, he wondered. Did it come like the soft sighing of the wind across the desert, coming louder and louder, until like the last long roll of Naval guns along the beach at Betio, so loudly sighing, it filled every void and lack and aching hollowness. Was it a great rush of feathered wings descending and carrying away in a blinding rush of brightness and sound, wings like white strong arms, brightness that was the sun and everything ever seen, sound that was all the universe of sounds, all the words ever spoken by all the world of voices.
Or did it fit the person to whom it came, a mechanism created in and of himself: for him a great, spectral tractor, with a pale, black-clad operator on the seat, one gloved hand on the blade lever; and the great engine straining and roaring and shaking the world, the cable keening in the cable-channels, the great tracks clacking and biting with sharp cleats, the enormous blade shining and down with its load of black earth and at the corners the cutting edge gleaming silver; a band on the friction clutch as the monster comes closer, and it turns toward him, the engine roaring and filling everything with sound and shaking, and the gloved hand touching gently the blade lever, and the cat nearer and nearer and louder and louder…