“Man, I want to die, is all," cried Ploy."Don't you know," said Dahoud, "that life is the most precious possession you have?”

“- Tío, quiero morirme, es lo único que quiero -gritó Ploy.- ¿No sabes -dijo Dahoud- que la vida es el bien más preciado que tienes?- Jo, jo -soltó Ploy entre lágrimas-. ¿Y eso por qué?- Pues porque sin ella -dijo Dahoud- estarías muerto.- Ah -dijo Ploy.”

“I came," she said, "hoping you could talk me out of a fantasy."Cherish it!" cried Hilarious, fiercely. "What else do any of you have? Hold it tightly by it's little tentacle, don't let the Freudians coax it away or the pharmacists poison it out of you. Whatever it is, hold it dear, for when you lose it you go over by that much to the others. You begin to cease to be.”

“You are off on a winding and difficult road, which you conceive to be wide and straight, an Autobahn you can travel at your ease. Is it any use for me to tell you that all you believe real is illusion? I don't know whether you'll listen, or ignore it. You only want to know about your path, your Autobahn.”

“A weapon based on Time . . ." mused Viktor Mulciber. "Well, why not? The one force no one knows how to defeat, resist, or reverse. It kills all forms of life sooner or later. With a Time-weapon you could become the most feared person in history." "I'd rather be loved," said Root. Mulciber shrugged. "You're young.”

“Young Tchitcherine was the one who brought up political narcotics. Opiates of the people.Wimpe smiled back. An old, old smile to chill even the living fire in Earth’s core. "Marxist dialectics? That’s not an opiate, eh?""It’s the antidote.""No." It can go either way. The dope salesman may know everything that’s ever going to happen to Tchitcherine, and decide it’s no use—or, out of the moment’s velleity, lay it right out for the young fool."The basic problem," he proposes, "has always been getting other people to die for you. What’s worth enough for a man to give up his life? That’s where religion had the edge, for centuries. Religion was always about death. It was used not as an opiate so much as a technique—it got people to die for one particular set of beliefs about death. Perverse, natürlich, but who are you to judge? It was a good pitch while it worked. But ever since it became impossible to die for death, we have had a secular version—yours. Die to help History grow to its predestined shape. Die knowing your act will bring will bring a good end a bit closer. Revolutionary suicide, fine. But look: if History’s changes are inevitable, why not not die? Vaslav? If it’s going to happen anyway, what does it matter?""But you haven’t ever had the choice to make, have you.""If I ever did, you can be sure—""You don’t know. Not till you’re there, Wimpe. You can’t say.""That doesn’t sound very dialectical.""I don’t know what it is.""Then, right up to the point of decision," Wimpe curious but careful, "a man could still be perfectly pure . . .""He could be anything. I don’t care. But he’s only real at the points of decision. The time between doesn’t matter.""Real to a Marxist.""No. Real to himself."Wimpe looks doubtful."I've been there. You haven't.”

“You know what a miracle is. Not what Bakunin said. But another world’s intrusion into this one. Most of the time we coexist peacefully, but when we do touch there’s cataclysm.”