The Snag

by Jason K. Chapman

Jot nudged the main control stick to the left and pressed his face more snugly against the eyepiece. The cross hairs glowed and tiny numbers lit up showing his deviation from the target, trailing the calculations out to seven decimal places. Without looking, he let the fingertips of his left hand brush the surface of the ball that controlled the aim of the laser drill in its finest movements while his right hovered over the trigger.

"Yes," he said aloud, though he was alone in the room. "Just so."

The slightest pressure on the trigger and the viewer went dark for less than a blink, then showed a neatly burned hole and a trail of vapor. He rechecked the measurements. It was high, and slightly to the left, but still within tolerance. He smiled to himself. He might beat his record today after all. He sat back and kicked the foot switch. The satisfying purr of the conveyor swaddled him as the newly-drilled piece of metal slid off through the exit slot and a fresh blank slid into place beneath the drill.

"Does it always smell like that?"

Jot was so startled he nearly sliced the corner off the metal plate under the drill. He spun the chair around and there by the door of the tiny, equipment-filled cubicle was an odd looking fellow.

"The nerve!" cried Jot. "You almost cost me a reject!"

The intruder's hands were clasped behind his back and his shrug nearly lifted him onto his toes. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Whatever are you doing here, anyway?"

"Oh, well," the stranger looked around, humming under his breath. "I'm here to fix the combuxinator! Yes, that's it. Didn't you report it?"

Jot felt uneasy. There was something very strange about this fellow's manner. "I did no such thing! I don't even know what a—a—."

"Combustulator," the fellow supplied.

"Whatever! I don't even know what it is." Narrowing his eyes to slits, Jot peered at the intruder. "Hey, wait. I thought you said 'combuxinator.'"

The stranger looked surprised, but only for a second. "Of course I did. Combuxinator, combustulator, you can't exactly have one without the other, now, can you? I mean, after all it is a bi-polar system."

"I see," said Jot. In truth, he saw nothing but a narrow little image of a strange little man. He stopped squinting and tried blinking instead.

"Well," the stranger went on, "I'm surprised someone like you, working on Level Five and all of that, would take the time to learn about the comboo-combination bi-polar gear. I mean, it's really just for us maintenance types, you know."

"You'd be surprised what I know!"

"Oh, indeed, indeed." The stranger stepped up and offered his hand. "Name's Grit. Maintenance, section thirteen forty-seven."

"Yes. Pleased, of course," said Jot, though he wasn't at all.

Grit slipped past him and leaned over the conveyor belt. By the time Jot turned, Grit had stuck his whole head inside the chamber where the laser drill did its work.

"Get out of there, you fool!" Jot cried. "What if the thing misfires?"

Grit was smiling when he pulled himself out. "Don't be silly," he said, "the System would never hurt anyone."

Jot wrung his hands. Whatever was he to do with this creature? "Look," he said, "I really have work to do and my production is falling as we speak. Why don't you just get about fixing your combolixator—"

"Combustigator," Grit corrected.

"—and let me get back to work?"

Grit spun around and began peering through the exit slot on the conveyor belt. "What part is this, anyway?" he asked. His voice fell flat in the dark hollow.

"What?"

Grit turned his head to stare back over his shoulder. "What's the component designation?"

"Eee-kay-seventeen, of course!"

"Oh." Grit's face fell and he pulled himself upright with obvious reluctance. "I thought, maybe, you worked on the Product."

Jot was indignant. "Now see here, you, there's nothing wrong with working on the repair units."

"Sub-assembly," Grit reminded him.

"Or the sub-assemblies of the repair units! They're just as important as the Product itself! Now go about your business, please. I have work to do."

Grit dug his hands into the pockets of his overalls. "Sure," he said. "On my way." Shoulders hunched, he tromped toward the door.

"Hey," called Jot. "Aren't you supposed to fix the—thing?"

"Sure," said Grit, without turning. He crossed to one of the equipment panels on the left and slammed his fist against the side. "There you go," he said.

"That's it?"

Grit shrugged. "It's a good system."

And with that, he trudged out the door.

***

Jot didn't set his new record that day. The time he lost with that quirky little character and the break in his concentration had cost him, both in output and accuracy. How was he ever going to move up at this rate? How would he ever get to work on the Product? He dragged through the hallways, his disappointment wrapped around him like a cloak. Though a river of people rushed around, flowing toward the living quarters for section seventeen ninety-one, he held himself like a rock, letting the current crash around him and rush onward.

Hadn't he just watched it on the Myther last night—how one determined soul worked his way all the way from maintenance up through the levels until he was allowed to work on the final assembly of the Product itself? His vision blurred as he remembered the beautiful scene at the end when the hero reached Retirement. It was a glorious sight when he walked off into the bright light to join the Retirees who spent their days doing nothing but basking in the joys of a life well worked. A shame the myth didn't show the Product, though. He would have liked to have seen it. Retirees, it was said, actually got to use it!

He looked quickly around him as if his thought might have been overheard. Easy now. Can't be spouting heresy, can we? One of his lessons from childhood tripped into his mind. "Take care of the parts, and the System will take care of the Product."

Of course it would. But he couldn't help wondering, could he? One could hardly help the thoughts that popped into one's head.

He negotiated the maze of hallways that held the section's living quarters and stopped in front of his door. It was a door like the other hundreds of doors, but this one was his; home. It was part of his secret shame that he had grown up here. Thirty years old and he was still working in the section he had started in! Would he never advance? Not if nitwits like that Grit kept interrupting his work.

"Umm, hello."

Jot knew the voice before he even turned around. It was Grit.

"You, again," said Jot. "What do you want now? Did someone report the combuxtipator in my apartment?"

"The what?" Grit blinked at him several times. "Oh," he went on, "no. Nothing like that—I just. . . ." His voice faded out and his chin drooped to his chest.

Jot tapped his foot as he stared at the top of the man's head. When he heard a sniff, he stopped. Bobbing like a whirlycrank, he tried to duck low enough to see Grit's face. "Here, here," he said. "What's all this, then?"

Grit looked up and there was a single tear clinging to his cheek. "I don't really know anyone here," he said.

"Well, of course you don't," said Jot, "this isn't your section. The day's over. Work's done. It's time to go home."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I," sniff, "just can't."

How absurd this was! Everyone had a home. Everyone had a job. One went to the appropriate one at the appropriate time. How could someone just be wandering around like—like a loose screw? The very notion was silly. Not even in the Myther had he ever—.

"Wait a second," said Jot, eyeing the little fellow carefully. "You're—you're a snag!"

Grit jumped forward trying to get his hand over Jot's mouth while the index finger of his other hand was tapping against his lips. "Shhh! Shhh! Don't say that so loud!"

Jot slapped the man's hand away. "You are, aren't you? Combundicator, indeed! I bet there's no such thing, is there. Is there?"

"Please," said Grit, "I'll leave you alone. I promise! Just please don't tell anyone."

That caught Jot by surprise. Who in the System would he tell? He certainly couldn't just flag a passing neighbor ranting about a real, live snag, could he? Who would believe him?

He covered his confusion with what he hoped was a look of self-righteousness. It was an expression he had had little practice with, so he borrowed something his mother used to use when he skipped his homework or his chores. He hoped he had it right, because he would hate to appear comical in such a stern situation.

"Very well," said Jot. "Be on your way. I shan't give you another thought." When Grit hesitated, he flipped his hands at him. "Shoo," he said, "I'll have no more to do with you."

Grit sniffed and his expression tore at Jot's cloak of condescension. When he spoke, it was to his shoes. "Sorry," he said, "and thanks. It was—nice meeting you, Jot."

"It was nice meeting y—what am I saying? This hasn't been pleasant at all. It has been quite a bother, really."

Still staring at his shoes, Grit turned and shuffled away. The sound of another sniff shot down the hallway like the beam from Jot's drill. The measurements were perfect. It pierced Jot's heart.

"Look, here," Jot said. Grit stopped, but didn't turn around. "Whatever are you going to eat? Where will you go?"

"I'll be fine," Grit said. He sounded so helpless, hopeless.

"There wouldn't be any harm in feeding you, I suppose." Jot slipped his ID into the slot and swung the door open. He left it that way, expecting the sad little fellow to come behind him. He waited, then waited some more. At last he poked his head back out into the hallway. Grit hadn't moved. "Well?"

Grit looked up. Hope burned in his eyes like a welding torch. "You really mean it?"

"Get in here this instant before I change my mind!" Memories of his mother were serving him well.

Grit sprang forward and crowded through the door. "Did you say something about food?"

***

They ate dinner silently. Ordinarily, Jot would have settled in with the Myther while he ate, but he only had one headset. Even though this bothersome little person did annoy him, there was certainly no call for rudeness, so he chewed in silence and thought about it.

A real live snag! How could such a thing be? How could someone slip through the system without a care, without a—schedule! The idea was preposterous. Maybe Grit really worked in this section and was simply having fun with him. Yes, of course, that had to be it. In another few minutes he would reveal the joke and they would trade laughter, Jot's tinged with the proper shade of chagrin, of course, and everything would be as it was. With the exception of Jot's production, that is.

"Ever been to another section?" asked Grit.

Jot huffed a few times, pushing his scowl to its deepest. "Here, here. There's no call to be insulting!"

"No no no," said Grit, "I didn't mean anything by it. I was just wondering."

"Okay, fine!" Jot was ready to throw the little fellow out. "So I haven't moved up, yet. So what? Most of the people I've seen around the section haven't either. It takes time, patience!"

"Truly," Grit begged, "I meant no insult! I was hoping you could tell me about it."

Barely mollified, Jot harrumphed. "Well, then. I see."

Grit leaned forward. "I've been walking forever and I've yet to see the Product. It seems like weeks ago I left my section."

"You left?!"

Grit's face refused to show guilt. He nodded eagerly. "I went all the way through maintenance and up here to level five and I'm not even to the product, yet."

"You just left your job and wandered up here?"

Grit hopped up. Excitement tinkled in his voice. "It's not as easy as all that! It took a day just to find a way from level four to level five! I had to take off an access panel and squeeze up through a conduit."

Now, Jot frowned in disbelief. "Surely there is an easier way. How else would anyone move up?"

Grit's shrug spoke for itself.

"Don't be foolish," said Jot. "Certainly people graduate from level four to here."

"I don't think so," said Grit. His head swung heavily back and forth.

"Of course they do, just like they graduate up from here!"

"Ever know anyone who did?" asked Grit.

How silly. Jot flipped through the pictures in his mind, ready to pull out one of the many examples, but he stopped suddenly. The realization struck him like a physical blow. There was no one. Of all the people he knew, not one had come in from another level, nor had one moved on.

"There are thousands of people in this section alone," said Jot. "How can I be expected to remember them all?"

"Just one," Grit said.

Tapping his skull with his fist, trying hard to shake loose the single name that would refute the fellow's words, Jot said, "That doesn't mean it never happens!"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course!"

"Really sure?"

The air leaked out of Jot's lungs in a long sigh. "I think so," he said.

Grit clamped his hand on Jot's wrist and tugged. "Come with me," he said. "Let's find out!"

From the look on Jot's face, Grit might just as well have suggested that they eat the sofa. "Find out what?"

"Everything!" cried Grit. "Where it all goes. What it's all about."

"You're saying. . . ."

"Let's find the Product!"

***

This was by far the most absurd thing Jot had ever done. Every other step was dragged by guilt. He would have turned back if not for the fact that the steps in between were propelled onward by excitement. He felt like a hero in a Myth! Of course, no Myth would ever have someone simply walk away from his job to wander aimlessly through the twisting corridors of level five. The Myther related the good and true, the values that made the System work.

"Are you sure," said Jot, "that you know where you're going?" He was trudging along behind Grit and eyeing him with suspicion.

"Of course!" Grit bobbed around a corner then bounced back just a second later. "Oops," he said. "Dead end."

"You don't, do you?"

"It has to be this way," said Grit. "That last room we looked in, they were using whirlycranks to bolt the last piece onto the repair units, right?"

"So?"

"So where else would the repair units go, but to the next level?"

"But that doesn't—."

"And the conveyor was going this way."

Jot stared at the blank wall ahead of them. There was not the slightest indication of any kind of passage and the scales in his mind began to tip back toward reason. They had only left this morning. Just how much production had he lost? Maybe if he hurried he could make it up over the next few days. Indeed, that would be the clever thing to do.

"It has to be this way," said Grit.

"I'm sure it is," Jot said, "if you're a repair unit."

"That's it!" cried Grit.

"That's what?"

"You're a genius!"

"I am not! I mean I am, or at least I may be, but I really don't—."

Too late, Grit was already bounding back down the way they had come. "Hey there," said Jot as he began to follow. "Wherever are you going?"

Grit disappeared back into the whirlycrank room and Jot gave a tiny groan. What was he to do but follow?

He found the odd little man talking to the operators and quite interfering with their production.

"Combuxivator," said Grit pointing to where the conveyor entered a large, dark hole in the wall. "It's up inside there and if my co-worker and I don't fix it the whole line will be stopped."

One of the operators, a woman with an apparently suspicious nature said, "I've never heard of the thing. Everything's working just fine."

Jot took a deep breath and waded in. "It's a bi-polar system, really," he said, "not the kind of thing you level five-types would need to waste time with."

Grit grinned at him. "Exactly," he said, "so we'll just be about our business." With that, he jumped up onto the conveyor dragging Jot by the sleeve. Jot nearly fell, but caught himself against Grit as they slid toward the darkness.

"Have no fear," called Jot. He found he was almost enjoying himself. "Your combuxerator will be working in no time!"

"Duck," said Grit.

"Conduckerator? Are you sure?" Jot turned to find his face just inches from the wall, but Grit dragged him down by the shoulder. He felt the top of the opening graze his head. Suddenly, he realized just what they were doing. They were in the System! They weren't just near it or working on it, they were in it! Panic gripped him, clamping his fingers onto Grit's sleeve.

The noise was tremendous. There was the steady whirr of the conveyor everywhere. He could feel, as much as hear, a rhythmic oom-pah-thump that seemed to mimic his racing heartbeat. Clanging, banging, ringing, and dinging all fought each other for dominance. Jot wanted to cover his ears, but that would have necessitated letting go of Grit. He needed the contact more.

"Where are we going?" shouted Jot.

Grit's reply was drowned in the noise.

"What?" Jot cried. "I can't hear you!"

When Grit turned around, his eyes were wide with panic. "I don't know!" he said.

"You what?"

Then they scooted off the end of the conveyor. Smooth, cold metal pushed up suddenly and they were knocked flat. They were rising! Wind rushed downward tossing their hair and seeming to smother them. It was too dark to see anything, so the two just huddled together.

With a horrendous clang they stopped moving. Light glared in on them as a giant slit grew into an opening. Jot was still shivering as he blinked at the light.

"What's this?" said a curious voice. "Who are you? Where's the unit?"

Jot was still trying to make sense of things as Grit dragged him to his feet. "So sorry," Grit said, stepping into the room. "We were fixing the—oh never mind!"

Jot looked around at the two confused workers as Grit dragged him from the room. Surely, they deserved some explanation. "Comburgerator!" he called as he was tugged through the door.

***

It was well past quitting time and Jot's stomach rumbled mercilessly. They found themselves, indeed, on level six. All of the work was back on raw materials, plates were cut, holes were drilled, surfaces polished. This was the beginning of the Product!

In spite of his excitement, Jot needed food and rest. How foolish it seemed, now. He had packed supplies, but some part of him had kept it to no more than a large lunch. Early that morning he had still thought of all this as a whim, a silly investigation meant to humor his strange little companion. But now, he had seen. This was where the Product had its start and more and more he wanted to see it through.

The work rooms were all empty. The equipment silent. The conveyor lay still. Jot felt tiny and he inched closer to Grit. He could live with feeling tiny, but tiny and alone were too much.

They found their way to the section's common room. Jot was shocked when he saw it. He might as easily have been back in his home section. The room was identical. The food dispensers there, the seats and tables just that color, even the people milling around looked the same.

"It's the same," said Jot looking around.

"They all are," Grit said. "I've seen five of them so far and every one's exactly alike."

"If nothing's different, why would someone want to move up?"

Grit looked at him and his smile was sort of twisted. "Why, indeed?" he said.

They gathered up enough food for the two of them and more besides. Jot refused to make the same mistake again. This time he would at least carry enough food to get them through the next level.

They carried their spoils out into the corridor and past the living quarters. Row upon row of doors, each numbered in order, lined the hallway. There was nothing to distinguish this place from level five.

Back in the production area, they settled in a room with a laser torch like the one Jot worked with. A tiny pang of guilt tweaked his stomach.

"Well, this should look familiar," said Grit as he sat on the floor.

Jot ran his hand over the back of the operator's seat. "I can do this," he said.

"I know," Grit said.

"No, I mean this." Jot stabbed his finger at the floor. "Here. Working on the Product. I could do this."

"Sure," said Grit. "Why not?"

Jot shook his head in frustration. "You don't understand. I could do this! I know how this works. I know how to run it."

Grit just blinked at him.

Jot's voice was almost pleading. "Why do I have to work on a repair unit—."

"Subassembly," Grit reminded him.

"A subassembly of a repair unit and this person gets to work on the Product? What's the difference? I don't understand."

"I don't know." Grit scooted down and folded his arms across his chest. "It's just the way the System works, I guess."

"It's not fair."

"Get some sleep."

"If I can't advance, it's not fair."

Grit sighed. "I don't think," he said, "that the System was meant to be fair."

***

For days and days they wandered the endless hallways. Flashbangers welded some pieces together. Zipstrippers cut others apart. They saw slaptackers, blockknockers, every tool they had ever known and some they had never seen before. Bit by bit and piece by piece, assembly by assembly, the Product began to take shape.

They rode the conveyor behind mysterious parts, climbed ladders hidden behind access panels. They even shinnied up a pipe once to get up to level ten. Yet it was all the same.

Each new section of each new level was identical. The living quarters, the work rooms, the common room, all looked as if Jot were still back on level five. Only the conveyor changed, to accommodate different sizes and shapes. Gadgets and gizmos, thingys and whatsits rolled inexorably on through the guts of the System. Still, the Product gave no clue as to its purpose.

Jot was consumed with finding out. When he realized that he hadn't thought of his job or his production in days he was only mildly surprised. This was beyond anything he had ever known, beyond even the tales that the Myther had shown him. This was adventure, the Product, the Truth.

At one point, Jot thought they were stopped for good. From the last section of level twelve they found only one exit. The conveyor changed to metal rollers, and the Product rolled, not into darkness, but into a blinding flash of heat. Noxious fumes billowed out after each flash. They searched for hours, but there was no other way out.

"I say we go," said Grit.

"Certainly not!" Jot, recalling his mother again, stamped his foot. "I will not go back. After all we've come through. There must be a way."

"No, no, no," Grit said. "I mean go through."

The hole whooshed as another piece of the Product went through. Steam billowed out.

"Through there?" Jot's hand shook as he pointed. "You're insane!"

"Listen!"

"I will not!"

Jot spun and tried to march from the room, but his feet slipped on the floor. Grit clutched the back of his overalls in a double-fisted grip.

"Let me go!" cried Jot.

"It's safe."

"You're insane!"

"I'm telling you," Grit pleaded, "the System won't hurt us!"

"You don't know that!"

"I do. I do!"

Jot shrugged and twisted and was suddenly free. He heard a thump and yelp behind him. In mid-stamp he turned. Grit had fallen back onto the conveyor. He was hunched up against the next part in line as it rolled toward the exit.

Jot's heart leapt into his throat. Grit was struggling to right himself. The conveyor rolled on.

"Grit!" Jot dove for the conveyor. He grabbed the little fellow's leg and tried to pull, but the fabric slipped from his fingers. He jumped up, knowing it might mean his death, and crawled after his little friend. He was too late. By the time he reached Grit, they were already inside the System. The two held onto each other and Jot squeezed his eyes shut so tightly they hurt. Jagged lines of light pulsed in his eyelids. He knew he was at the end of the line. A terrible howl filled his ears. It was coming from Grit.

But the whoosh never came. The flash never happened.

They rolled on into the darkness and Grit fell silent.

After a minute he began to laugh. It was a decidedly nervous laugh. "I told you," he said. "The System wouldn't hurt anybody."

***

Jot had lost track of the days. In his more tired moments it began to seem as if he had always been on this journey, as if his life as a solid, productive person was the wisp of a memory from the Myther.

Grit had lost none of his enthusiasm. Each time some new flange sprouted from the rolling line of Products, he gave a delighted squeak, pointing it out as if Jot were too blind to see for himself. He bounced and sprang, having lost all fear. He knew the System could not harm him and he toyed with it. Once, to the operator's shock, he stuck his hand in front of a flashbanger just as it was about to go off. The tool didn't fire until Grit was safely away. He laughed at the speechless operator and bounded from the room, leaving Jot behind.

He shrugged at the operator and spoke in a half-hearted mumble. "It's the combuffalator," he said. "Happens all the time."

On level seventeen, things changed. The product stood gloriously on the conveyor. It was twice the height of a man and ten times as broad. It sported lights and gadgets and all manner of attachment. They followed it into a long open room where workers were slapping tags and labels all over it. Thirty people stood in a row, each affixing a single item. "Left/Right/Up" said one switch while a slider went from "green" to "wet."

Jot walked along beside it, reading a newly attached label.

"Warning: Use of this item for any purpose other than that intended by its design may result in certain functions performing in ways other than expected."

"But what does it do?" cried Jot. "Where does it go?"

Everyone in the room looked at him. A product slid past unlabeled.

"It's the product!" said the "Left/Right/Up" labeler.

"Indeed," said another. "It gets used, of course."

"But for what?"

Another labeler piped up from the end of the line. "Why, for its intended use. What do you think?"

"But what is its intended use?"

"Everyone knows that! Its intended use is the one it was designed for."

Jot was nearly ready to cry in his frustration. His hands shook. Suddenly, Grit was there. He pulled Jot away and called back over his shoulder. "Please, forgive him," he said. "A combunifator fell on his head."

Looks of genuine concern sprouted all over the room.

"That happened to a friend of mine," said one of the labelers.

"Hope you feel better," called another.

Grit dragged him over to the massive conveyor exit. "They won't understand," he hissed. "They don't know."

"But this is it," said Jot. "This is the end and we still don't know!"

"Not quite." Grit nodded at the naked Product that rolled grandly past them. "It still goes somewhere."

Jot's voice was weak and thin. "More?"

Grit squeezed his shoulder. "Just a little more," he said.

"Very well," said Jot. "Once more into the System."

"There you go."

Together, they hopped onto the conveyor behind the Product. Darkness wrapped them. The System fell oddly quiet. Only the gentle whirr of the conveyor accompanied them on their journey.

When they slid off the end of the conveyor, they gripped each other's hands. The darkness was almost total. Suddenly, it was as if the floor had dropped from beneath them. Jot felt his breakfast climb up his throat. A mewling whine leaked from his nose. He was terrified and from the way that Grit was crushing his hand he knew the odd little fellow was frightened as well.

Over and over he said to himself, "The System can't hurt us. The System can't hurt us." He tried, oh, so hard, he tried to believe it.

When their descent began to slow, he let out a long breath. He heard Grit sniff. The poor little fellow had been crying.

"There, there," said Jot. "You were right all along. The System can't hurt us."

Grit sniffed again. "Thanks," he said.

A door slid open and brilliant white light filled the room. A terrible odor bit at Jot's nose. "We're here," he said.

Grit was silent.

A giant metal claw shot into the room and grabbed the Product, lifting it an inch above the ground.

Grit sniffed a few more times.

"It's okay," said Jot, patting his friend's shoulder. "We're safe."

"No," said Grit, sniffing again. "Oh, no."

They followed the Product as the claw swung it through the air.

"Yes," Jot said, trying to sound as chipper as he could. "We're almost there."

"I know that smell," said Grit.

"Piffle!" Jot patted him on the shoulder again. "A smell's a smell."

He smiled as the Product was set down on a huge metal plate.

"You don't understand," said Grit.

A flash of light blinded them for a second. It was accompanied by a buzz that vibrated Jot's chest. The stench renewed itself a hundredfold.

Jot blinked away the afterimage. There, where once had stood the tall and mighty Product, was a puddle of molten goo.

"Oh, no," Grit said.

Jot just shook his head. "I don't understand."

"No!" Grit cried. "No, no, no!" He ran around the tray that held puddle to where a trough drained it away. He was still crying out the word "no."

"Grit," cried Jot. "Wait!" He hurried after his small companion, afraid Grit might hurt himself. Whatever had gotten in to him?

When he caught him, Grit was staring at a hole in the wall. The trough poured the goo right through it.

Grit dropped to the floor.

Jot knelt down gently, and lifted Grit's chin. "Hey," he said. "What's the matter?"

"This stuff," Grit said. "It's raw material."

"So?"

"It's what all the parts are made out of."

"Of course," said Jot.

Light flashed around them and they felt the giant buzz in the air around them. Jot looked back nervously. "They have to destroy the defective ones, don't they?" The pleading tone in his voice somehow frightened him.

"Look," said Grit.

Jot followed his eyes to the doorway they had just come through. The claw was lifting another Product out.

"They're defects," said Jot. "Aren't they?"

Grit looked at him, and tears crept down his round little cheeks. "There was no other way," he said between sniffs, "no other way out of there."

Again the buzz and zap, the brilliant flash. Jot felt as if he himself were being slagged. "There has to be," he said.

Grit shook his head. "This is it."

Jot grabbed the little fellow's shoulders and he shook him. He heard Grit's head banging against the wall with each shake. "This—can't—be—it! Can't—be!"

"This is it!" Grit screamed at him. "That's all there is!"

"Can't—be! Can't—be!" Each word was punctuated by Grit's head slamming against the wall. "It's your fault! I could be home, now! Working!"

"I didn't know!" Grit was crying. He flopped in Jot's grip like a rag.

Suddenly, Jot let go. He looked at his hands in horror.

Grit slumped to the floor, still crying. "I didn't know," he said.

Jot reached toward his little friend, but stopped. "Oh, Grit," he said. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—I just—." He slumped over and looked at the ceiling. He barely noticed the periodic buzz-flashes.

"I didn't know," Grit whimpered.

"I'm sorry," said Jot. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

He continued to stare at the ceiling and to listen to Grit's muffled sobs. He had no will to move. He lay there, and for the first time in his life, was without purpose.

Of the things he had learned, one thing saddened him more than anything else. It was a fact that had, just moments ago, leant him comfort, but now filled him with both sadness and terror. No matter where he went, no matter how he stood or moved, no matter how he timed it, he knew the System could never hurt him.