Vonnegut

George winced.

Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die.

They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun.

Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard.

It wasn't clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment.

He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H-G men could think them up.

He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that.

Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set.

Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn't think about anything except in short bursts.

All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.

They were burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in.

Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical handicaps with marvelous delicacy.

Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.