His feet would take a tentative step, however uncertain. His mind would lag behind. His hands would reach sideways for the corridor walls which he would barely tip with his fingers. His eyes would see no light. He would nevertheless waddle forward, the action of some command whose source he could not identify overcoming his paralyzing anxiety. Painfully, he would arrive at the end of the long passage. He would find the door wide open and would stand in the doorway, the ghost of a nervous smile slowly progressing in his face. He would know he should not take another step, he had long known it. He would search his memory which he had wiped out clean a million times to discover it ever again reconstructed by his specifiable brain. And just as in any other previous occasion he would resign himself to his powerless control over fate.
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