Rand forged ahead. The path, rather well-defined at first, became fainter as it wound its way across the rolling moonlit countryside. A flushed rabbit went bobbing through the grass. Far off an owl chortled wickedly. A faint chill wind came out of the west. And with the wind came a sense of loneliness, of open empty space untenanted by anything other than rabbit, owl and wind.
The path came to an end, its faintness finally pinching out to nothing. The groves of trees and thickets of low-growing shrubs gave way to a level plain of blowing grass, bleached to whiteness by the moon, a faceless prairie land. Staring out across it, Rand knew that this wilderness of grass would run on and on forever. It had in it the scent and taste of foreverness. He shuddered at the sight of it and wondered why a man should shudder at a thing so simple. But even as he wondered, he knew - the grass was staring back at him; it knew him and waited patiently for him, for in time he would come to it. He would wander into it and be lost in it, swallowed by its immensity and anonymity.
He turned and ran, unashamedly, chill of blood and brain, shaken to the core. When he reached the outskirts of the village, he finally stopped the running and turned to look back into the wasteland. He had left the grass behind, but he sensed illogically that it was stalking him, flowing forward, still out of sight, but soon to appear, with the wind blowing billows in its whiteness.
He ran again, but not so fast and hard this time, jogging down the street. He came into the square and crossed it, and when he reached his house, he saw that the house across the street was dark. He did not hesitate, but went on down the street he’d walked when he first came to the village. For he knew now that he must leave this magic place with its strange and quiet old village, its forever autumn and eternal harvest moon, its faceless sea of grass, its children who receded in the distance when one went to look for them, its old man who walked into oblivion, dropping hat and cane - that he must somehow find his way back to that other world where few jobs existed and men walked the road to find them, where nasty little wars flared in forgotten corners and a camera caught on film the doom that was to come.
He left the village behind him and knew that he had not far to go to reach the place where the path swerved to the right and down a broken slope into the little valley to the magic starting point he’d found again after many years. He went slowly and carefully so that he would not wander off the path, for as he remembered it the path was very faint. It took much longer than he had thought to reach the point where the path swerved to the right into the broken ground, and the realization grew upon him that the path did not swing to right and there was no broken ground.
In front of him he saw the grass again and there was no path leading into it. He knew that he was trapped, that he would never leave the village until he left it as the old man had, walking out of it and into nothingness. He did not move closer to the grass, for he knew there was terror there and he’d had enough of terror. You’re a coward, he told himself.
Retracing the path back to the village, he kept a sharp lookout, going slowly so that he’d not miss the turnoff if it should be there. It was not, however. It once had been, he told himself, bemused, and he’d come walking up it, out of that other world he’d fled.
The village street was dappled by the moonlight shining through the rustling leaves. The house across the street still was dark, and there was an empty loneliness about it. Rand remembered that he had not eaten since the sandwich he had made that noon. There’d be something in the milkbox - he’d not looked in it that morning, or had he? He could not remember.
He went around the house to the back porch where the milkbox stood. The Milkman was standing there. He was more shadowy than ever, less well defined, with the moonlight shining on him, and his face was deeply shaded by the wide-brimmed hat he wore.
Rand halted abruptly and stood looking at him, astounded that the Milkman should he there. For he was out of place in the autumn moonlight. He was a creature of the early morning hours and of no other times.
‘I came,’ the Milkman said, ‘to determine if I could be of help.’
Rand said nothing. His head buzzed large and misty, and there was nothing to be said.
‘A gun,’ the Milkman suggested. ‘Perhaps you would like a gun.’
‘A gun? Why should I want one?’
‘You have had a most disturbing evening. You might feel safer, more secure, with a gun in hand, a gun strapped about your waist.’
Rand hesitated. Was there mockery in the Milkman’s voice?
‘Or a cross.’
‘A cross?’
‘A crucifix. A symbol …’
‘No,’ said Rand. ‘I do not need a cross.’
‘A volume of philosophy, perhaps.’
‘No!’ Rand shouted at him. ‘I left all that behind. We tried to use them all, we relied on them and they weren’t good enough and now…’
He stopped, for that had not been what he’d meant to say, if in fact he’d meant to say anything at all. It was something that he’d never even thought about; it was as if someone inside of him were speaking through his mouth.
‘Or perhaps some currency?’
‘You are making fun of me,’ Rand said bitterly, ‘and you have no right…’
‘I merely mention certain things,’ the Milkman said, ‘upon which humans place reliance…’
‘Tell me one thing,’ said Rand, ‘as simply as you can. Is there any way of going back?’
‘Back to where you came from?’
‘Yes,’ said Rand. ‘That is what I mean.’
‘There is nothing to go back to.’ the Milkman said. ‘Anyone who comes has nothing to go back to.’
‘But the old man left. He wore a black felt hat and carried a cane. He dropped them and I found them.’
‘He did not go back,’ the Milkman said. ‘He went ahead. And do not ask me where, for I do not know.’
‘But you’re a part of this.’
‘I am a humble servant. I have a job to do and I try to do it well. I care for our guests the best that I am able. But there comes a time when each of our guests leaves us. I would suspect this is a halfway house on the road to someplace else.’
‘A place for getting ready,’ Rand said.
‘What do you mean?’ the Milkman asked.
‘I am not sure,’ said Rand. ‘I had not meant to say it.’ And this was the second time, he thought, that he’d said something he had not meant to say.
‘There’s one comfort about this place.’ the Milkman said. ‘One good thing about it you should keep in mind. In this village nothing ever happens.’
He came down off the porch and stood upon the walk. ‘You spoke of the old man,’ he said, ‘and it was not the old man only. The old lady also left us. The two of them stayed on much beyond their time.’
‘You mean I’m here all alone?’
The Milkman had started down the walk, but now he stopped and turned. ‘There’ll be others coming,’ he said. ‘There are always others coming.’
What was it Sterling had said about man outrunning his brain capacity? Rand tried to recall the words, but now, in the confusion of the moment, he had forgotten them. But if that should be the case, if Sterling had been right (no matter how he had phrased his thought), might not man need, for a while, a place like this, where nothing ever happened, where the moon was always full and the year was stuck on autumn?
Another thought intruded and Rand swung about, shouting in sudden panic at the Milkman. ‘But these others? Will they talk to me? Can I talk with them? Will I know their names?’
The Milkman had reached the gate by now and it appeared that he had not heard.