Fifty years after that, by which time a full third of the land was glass and the climate was worsening, the Survival College in Ashton at last invented the promised machine; and from then on slow birds continued to appear and fly and disappear as before, but now none of them exploded.
And a hundred years after that all the slow birds vanished from the Earth. Somewhere, a war was over, logically and finally.
But by then, from an Earth four-fifths of whose land surface was desert or swamp — in between necklaces of barren shining glass — the first starship would arise into orbit.
It would be called Slow Bird. For it would fly to the stars, slowly. Slowly in human terms; two generations it would take. But that was comparatively fast.
A second starship would follow it; called Daniel.
Though after that massive and exhausting effort, there would be no more starships. The remaining human race would settle down to cultivate what remained of their garden in amongst the dunes and floods and acres of glass. Whether either starship would find a new home as habitable even as the partly glassed Earth, would be merely an article of faith.
On his deathbed, eighty years of age, in Ashton College lay Daniel who had never admitted to a family name.
The room was almost indecently overcrowded, though well if warmly ventilated by a wind whipping over Ashton Glass, and bright-lit by the silvery blaze reflecting from that vitrified expanse.
The dying old man on the bed beneath a single silken sheet was like a bird himself now: shrivelled with thin bones, a beak of a nose, beady eyes, and a rooster's comb of red hair on his head.
He raised a frail hand as if to summon those closest even closer.
Actually it was to touch the old wound in his skull which had begun to ache fiercely of late as though it was about to burst open or cave in, unlocking the door of memory — notwithstanding that no one now needed the key hidden there, since his Collegians had discovered it independently, given the knowledge that it existed.
Faces leaned over him: confident, dedicated faces.
"They've stopped exploding, then?" he asked, forgetfully.
"Yes, yes, years ago!" they assured him.
"And the stars —?"
"We'll build the ships. We'll discover how."
His hand sank back on to the sheet. "Call one of them —"
"Yes?"
"Daniel. Will you?"
They promised him this.
"That way… my spirit…"
"Yes?"
"…will fly…"
"Yes?"
"…into the silence of space."
This slightly puzzled the witnesses of his death; for they could not know that Daniel's last thought was that, when the day of the launching came, he and his brother might at last be reconciled.