His gloves were off now. In a gesture expressive of his frustration he lifted his hand, its creases lined with little flecks of talcum powder, and impatiently flexed its fingers. Then he looked at them intently. Which one of them had performed that operation? The index finger, perhaps, or the thumb? He laughed aloud. Of course not. They were just instruments, tools of his mind. He could ask only one thing of them, that they be responsive, sensitive, obedient to his will. Just as God asked of him...
"That's what I am," he thought with sudden clarity, "just a finger. Or perhaps a thumb."
Frustration? Hardly! What more could any man ask of life than the knowledge that he was a finger or thumb among other fingers, and that the hand was the hand of God?
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