The ennui and drudgery of another day on the assembly line washed over Terrick Smith, robbing him of joy and sensation. His mind wandered back over recent events, the fights, the hastily chosen words, and all that booze. But she’d come back. She always did.

Surprisingly, it was someone else’s scream that pulled him back from his melancholy wonderings. An assembly line, like any machine, even the new-fangled thinking kind, was cold, heartless and efficient. And it had coldly, heartlessly, and efficiently pressed his arm between two sheets of white hot metal which was now formed into the exhaust screen of a DBX -7 Stratocruiser.

Muttering swears and curses, Terrick shook off the glove on his free hand and waved off the panicky coworkers. There was no pain, which was a bit surprising, though not shocking enough to overcome the frustration. He’d gone 5 months without an accident. He had stuff to do.

But now he’d have to go there, the Company Body Bank for a new hand. And that’d take all darn day.