A landslide started, and the object got into the air just in time. It barely missed a mountain; then it climbed steadily, until it was a little black speck against the larger sun. And then it was gone.
That evening, it was discovered that 53 females had been killed. This was fortunate since it helped keep down the surplus female population. The problem would become even more acute now, since seventeen males were gone in a single lump.
Cordovir was feeling exceedingly proud of himself. His wife had been gloriously killed in the fighting, but he took another at once.
“We had better kill our wives sooner than every twenty-five days for a while,” he said at the evening Gathering. “Just until things get back to normal.”
The surviving females, back in the pen, heard him and applauded wildly.
“I wonder where the things have gone,” Hum said, offering the question to the Gathering.
“Probably away to enslave some defenseless race,” Cordovir said. “Not necessarily,” Mishill put in and the evening argument was on.
THE PETRIFIED WORLD
Lanigan dreamed the dream again and managed to wake himself with a hoarse cry. He sat upright in bed and glared around him into the violet darkness. His teeth clenched and his lips were pulled back into a spastic grin. Beside him he felt his wife, Estelle, stir and sit up. Lanigan didn’t look at her. Still caught in his dream, he waited for tangible proofs of the world.
A chair slowly drifted across his field of vision and fetched up against the wall with a quiet thump. Lanigan’s face relaxed slightly. Then Estelle’s hand was on his arm—a touch meant to be soothing, but which burned like lye.
“Here,” she said. “Drink this.”
“No,” Lanigan said. “I’m all right now.”
“Drink it anyhow.”
“No, really. I really am all right.”
For now he was completely out of the grip of the nightmare. He was himself again, and the world was its habitual self. That was very precious to Lanigan; he didn’t want to let go of it just now, not even for the soothing release of a sedative. “Was it the same dream?” Estelle asked him.
“Yes, just the same...I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right,” Estelle said. (She is humoring me, Lanigan thought. I frighten her. I frighten myself.)
She asked, “Hon, what time is it?”
Lanigan looked at his watch. “Six-fifteen.” But as he said it, the hour hand jumped convulsively forward. “No, it’s five to seven.”
“Can you get back to sleep?”
“I don’t think so,” Lanigan said. “I think I’ll stay up.”
“Fine, dear,” Estelle said. She yawned, closed her eyes, opened them again and asked, “Hon, don’t you think it might be a good idea if you called—”
“I have an appointment with him for twelve-ten,” Lanigan said.
“That’s fine,” Estelle said. She closed her eyes again. Sleep came over her while Lanigan watched. Her auburn hair turned a faint blue, and she sighed once, heavily.
Lanigan got out of bed and dressed. He was, for the most part, a large man, unusually easy to recognize. His features were curiously distinct. He had a rash on his neck. He was in no other way outstanding, except that he had a recurring dream which was driving him insane.
He spent the next few hours on his front porch watching stars go nova in the dawn sky.
Later, he went out for a stroll. As luck would have it, he ran into George Torstein just two blocks from his house. Several months ago, in an incautious moment, he had told Torstein about his dream. Torstein was a bluff, hearty fellow, a great believer in self-help, discipline, practicality, common sense, and other dull virtues. His hardheaded, no-nonsense attitude had come as a momentary relief to Lanigan. But now it acted as an abrasive. Men like Torstein were undoubtedly the salt of the earth and the backbone of the country, but for Lanigan, wrestling with the impalpable and losing, Torstein had grown from a nuisance into a horror.
“Well, Tom, how’s the boy?” Torstein greeted him.
“Fine,” Lanigan said, “just fine.” He nodded pleasantly and began to walk away under a melting green sky. But one did not escape from Torstein so easily.
“Tom, boy, I’ve been thinking about your problem,” Torstein said. “I’ve been quite disturbed about you.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you,” Lanigan said. “But really, you shouldn’t concern yourself—”
“I do it because I want to,” Torstein said, speaking the simple, deplorable truth. “I take an interest in people, Tom. Always have, ever since I was a kid. And you and I’ve been friends and neighbors for a long time.”
“That’s true enough,” Lanigan said numbly. (The worst thing about needing help was having to accept it.)
“Well, Tom, I think what would really help you would be a little vacation.”
Torstein had a simple prescription for everything. Since he practiced soul-doctoring without a license, he was always careful to prescribe a drug you could buy over the counter.
“I really can’t afford a vacation this month,” Lanigan said. (The sky was ochre and pink now-, three pines had withered; an aged oak had turned into a youthful cactus.)
Torstein laughed heartily. “Boy, you can’t afford not to take a vacation just now! Did you ever consider that?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Well, consider it. You’re tired, tense, all keyed-up. You’ve been working too hard.”
“I’ve been on leave of absence all week,” Lanigan said. He glanced at his watch. The gold case had turned to lead, but the time seemed accurate enough. Nearly two hours had passed since he had begun this conversation.
“It isn’t good enough,” Torstein was saying. “You’ve stayed right here in town, right close to your work. You need to get in touch with nature. Tom, when was the last time you went camping?”
“Camping? I don’t think I’ve ever gone camping.”
“There, you see! Boy, you’ve got to put yourself back in touch with real things. Not streets and buildings, but mountains and rivers.”
Lanigan looked at his watch again and was relieved to see it turn back to gold. He was glad; he had paid sixty dollars for that case.
“Trees and lakes,” Torstein was rhapsodizing. “The feel of grass growing under your feet, the sight of tall black mountains marching across a golden sky—”
Lanigan shook his head. “I’ve been in the country, George. It doesn’t do anything for me.”
Torstein was obstinate. “You must get away from artificialities.”
“It all seems equally artificial,” Lanigan said. “Trees or buildings—what’s the difference?”
“Men make buildings,” Torstein intoned rather piously, “but God makes trees.”
Lanigan had his doubts about both propositions, but he wasn’t going to tell them to Torstein. “You might have something there,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”
“You do that,” Torstein said. “It happens I know the perfect place. It’s in Maine, Tom, and it’s right near this little lake—”
Torstein was a master of the interminable description. Luckily for Lanigan, there was a diversion. Across the street, a house burst into flames.
“Hey, whose house is that5” Lanigan asked.
“Makelby’s,” Torstein said. “That’s his third fire this month.”
“Maybe we ought to give the alarm.”
“You’re right, I’ll do it myself,” Torstein said. “Remember what I told you about that place in Maine, Tom.”
Torstein turned to go, and something rather humorous happened. As he stepped over the pavement, the concrete liquified under his left foot. Caught unawares, Torstein went in ankle-deep. His forward motion pitched him headfirst into the street.