EARTH ABIDES

by

George R. Stewart

FAWCETT CREST · NEW YORK

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book

is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or

destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received

payment for it.

A Fawcett Crest Book

Published by Ballantine Books

Copyright © 1949 by George R. Stewart

Copyright renewed © 1976 by George R. Stewart

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division

of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random

House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or

by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in

writing from the publisher.

Except for an occasional reference which some of my friends may recognize,

the people and incidents and consequences of *Earth Abides* derive from the

imagination and are not to be identified with any living or dead person or

any actual occurrence.

ISBN 0-449-21301-3

This edition published by arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company

Printed in Canada

First Fawcett Crest Edition: April 1971

First Ballantine Books Edition: May 1983

40 39 38 17 36

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to Jill

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Men go and come, but earth abides

ECCLESIASTES, I, 4

*Contents*

1   World Without End         1

2   The Year 22               145

3   The Last American         307

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*1*

*World Without End*

If a killing type of virus strain should suddenly arise by mutation ... it

could, because of the rapid transportation in which we indulge nowadays, be

carried to the far corners of the earth and cause the deaths of millions of

people.

-- W. M. Stanley, in *Chemical and Engineering News,* Dec. 22, 1947.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 1*

*... and the government of the United States of America is herewith

suspended, except in the District of Columbia, as of the emergency. Federal

officers, including those of the Armed Forces, will put themselves under

the orders of the governors of the various states or of any other

functioning local authority.* By order of the Acting President. *God save

the people of the United States....*

*Here is an announcement which has just come in from the Bay Area Emergency

Council. The West Oakland Hospitalization Center has been abandoned. Its

functions, including burials at sea, are now concentrated at the Berkeley

Center. That is all....*

*Keep tuned to this Station, which is the only one now in operation in

northern California. We shall inform you of developments, as long as it is

possible.*

Just as he pulled himself up to the rock-ledge, he heard a sudden rattle,

and felt a prick of fangs. Automatically he jerked back his right hand;

turning his head, he saw the snake, coiled and menacing. It was not a large

one, he noted, even at the moment when he raised his hand to his lips and

sucked hard at the base of the index-finger, where a little drop of blood

was oozing out.

*"Don't waste time by killing the snake!"* he remembered.

He slid down from the ledge, still sucking. At the bottom he saw the hammer

lying where he had left it. For a moment he thought he would go on and

leave it there. That seemed like panic; so he stooped and picked it up with

his left hand, and went on down the rough trail.

He did not hurry. He knew better than that. Hurry only speeded up a man's

heart, and made the venom circulate faster. Yet his heart was pounding so

rapidly from excitement or fear that hurrying or not hurrying, it seemed,

should make no difference. After he had come to some trees, he took his

handkerchief and bound it around his right wrist. With the aid of a twig he

twisted the handkerchief into a crude tourniquet.

Walking on, he felt himself recovering from his panic. His heart was

slowing down. As he considered the situation, he was not greatly afraid. He

was a young man, vigorous and healthy. Such a bite would hardly be fatal,

even though he was by himself and without good means of treatment.

Now he saw the cabin ahead of him. His hand felt stiff. Just before he got

to the cabin, he stopped and loosened the tourniquet, as he had read should

be done, and let the blood circulate in the hand. Then he tightened it

again.

He pushed open the door, dropping the hammer on the floor as he did so. It

fell, handle up, on its heavy head, rocked back and forth for a moment, and

then stood still, handle in the air.

He looked into the drawer of the table, and found his snake-bite outfit,

which he should have been carrying with him on this day of a days. Quickly

he followed the directions, slicing with the razor-blade a neat little

criss-cross over the mark of the fangs, applying the rubber suction-pump.

Then he lay on his bunk watching the rubber bulb slowly expand, as it

sucked the blood out.

He felt no premonitions of death. Rather, the whole matter still seemed to

him just a nuisance. People had kept telling him that he should not go into

the mountains by himself--"Without even a dog!" they used to add. He had

always laughed at them. A dog was constant trouble, getting mixed up with

porcupines or skunks, and he was not fond of dogs anyway. Now all those

people would say, "Well, we warned you!"

Tossing about half-feverishly, he now seemed to himself to be composing a

defense. "Perhaps," he would say, "the very danger in it appealed to me!"

(That had a touch of the heroic in it.) More truthfully he might say, "I

like to be alone at times, really need to escape from all the problems of

dealing with people." His best defense, however, would merely be that, at

least during the last year, he had gone into the mountains alone as a

matter of business. As a graduate student, he was working on a thesis: *The

Ecology of the Black Creek Area.* He had to investigate the relationships,

past and present, of men and plants and animals in this region. Obviously

he could not wait until just the right companion came along. In any case,

he could never see that there was any great danger. Although nobody lived

within five miles of his cabin, during the summer hardly a day passed

without some fisherman coming by, driving his car up the rocky road or

merely following the stream.

Yet, come to think of it, when had he last seen a fisherman? Not in the

past week certainly. He could not actually remember whether he had seen one

in the two weeks that he had been living by himself in the cabin. There was

that car he had heard go by after dark one night. He thought it strange

that any car would be going up that road in the darkness, and could hardly

see the necessity, for ordinarily people camped down below for the night

and went up in the morning. But perhaps, he thought, they wanted to get up

to their favorite stream, to go out for some early fishing.

No, actually, he had not exchanged a word with anyone in the last two

weeks, and he could not even remember that he had seen anyone.

A throb of pain brought him back to what was happening at the moment. The

hand was beginning to swell. He loosened the tourniquet to let the blood

circulate again.

Yes, as, he returned to his thoughts, he realized that he was out of touch

with things entirely. He had no radio. Therefore, as far as he was

concerned, there might have been a crash of the stockmarket or another

Pearl Harbor; something like that would account for so few fishermen going

by. At any rate, there was very little chance apparently that anyone would

come to help him. He would have to work his own way out.

Yet even that prospect did not alarm him. At worst, he considered, he would

lie up in his cabin, with plenty of food and water for two or three days,

until the swelling in his hand subsided and he could drive his car down to

Johnson's, the first ranch.

The afternoon wore on. He did not feel like eating anything when it came

toward supper-time, but he made himself a pot of coffee on the gasoline

stove, and drank several cups. He was in much pain, but in spite of the

pain and in spite of the coffee he became sleepy...

He woke suddenly in half-light, and realized that someone had pushed open

the cabin door. He felt a sudden relief to know that he had help. Two men

in city clothes were standing there, very decent-looking men, although

staring around strangely, as if in fright. "I'm sick!" he said from his

bunk, and suddenly he saw the fright on their faces change to sheer panic.

They turned suddenly without even shutting the door, and ran. A moment

later came the sound of a starting motor. It faded out as the car went up

the road.

Appalled now for the first time, he raised himself from the bank, and

looked through the window. The car had already vanished around the curve.

He could not understand. Why had they suddenly disappeared in panic,

without even offering to help?

He got up. The light was in the east; so he had slept until dawn the next

morning. His right hand was swollen and acutely painful. Otherwise he did

not feel very ill. He warmed lap the pot of coffee, made himself some

oatmeal, and lay down in- his bunk again, in the hope that after a while he

would feel well enough to risk driving down to Johnson's that is, of

course, if no one came along in the meantime who would stop and help him

and not like those others, who must be crazy, run away at the sight of a

sick man.

Soon, however, he felt much worse, and realized that he must be suffering

some kind of relapse. By the middle of the afternoon he was redly

frightened. Lying in his bunk, he composed a note, thinking that he should

leave a record of what had happened. It, would not be very long of course

before someone would find him; his parents would certainly telephone

Johnson's in a few days now, if they did not hear anything. Scrawling with

his left hand, he managed to get the words onto paper. He signed merely

Ish. It was too much work to write out his full name of Isherwood Williams,

and everybody knew him by his nickname. .

At noon, feeling himself like the ship-wrecked mariner who from his raft

sees the steamer cross along the horizon, he heard the sound of cars, two

of them, coming up the steep road. They approached, and then went on,

without stopping. He called to them, but by now he was weak, and his voice,

he was sure, did not carry the hundred yards to the turn-off where the cars

were passing.

Even so, before dusk he struggled to his feet, and lighted the kerosene

lamp. He did not want to be left in the dark.

Apprehensively, he bent his lanky body down to peer into the little mirror,

set too low for him because of the sloping roof of the cabin. His long face

was thin always, and scarcely seemed thinner now, but a reddish flush

showed through the sun-tan of his cheeks. His big blue eyes were

blood-shot, and stared back at him wildly with the glare of fever. His

light brown hair, unruly always, now stuck out in all directions,

completing the mirror-portrait of a very sick young man.

He got back into his bunk, feeling no great sense of fear although now he

more than half expected that he was dying. Soon a violent chill struck him;

from that he passed into a fever. The lamp burned steadily on the table,

and he could see around the cabin. The hammer which he had dropped on the

floor still stood there, handle pointed stiffly upwards, precariously

balanced. Being right before his eyes, the hammer occupied an unduly large

part of his consciousness-he thought about it a little disorderedly, as if

he were making his will, an old-fashioned will in which he described the

chattels he was leaving. "One hammer, called a *single-jack,* weight of

head four pounds, handle one foot long, slightly cracked, injured by

exposure to weather, head of hammer somewhat rusted, still serviceable." He

had been extraordinarily pleased when he had found the hammer, appreciating

that actual link with the past. It had been used by some miner in the old

days when rock-drills were driven home in a low tunnel with a man swinging

a hammer in one hand; four pounds was about the weight a man could handle

in that way, and it was called a single-jack because it was managed

one-handedly. He thought, feverishly, that he might even include a picture

of the hammer as an illustration in his thesis.

Most of those hours of darkness he passed in little better than a

nightmare, racked by coughing, choking frequently, shaking with the chill

and then burning with the fever. A pink measles-like rash broke out on him.

At daybreak he felt himself again sinking into a deep sleep.

*"It has never happened!" cannot be construed to mean, "It can never

happen!"--as well say, "Because I have never broken my leg, my leg is

unbreakable," or "Because I've never died, I am immortal." One thinks first

of some great plague of insects-locusts or grasshoppers-when the species

suddenly increases out of all proportion, and then just as dramatically

sinks to a tiny fraction of what it has recently been. The higher animals

also fluctuate. The lernmings work upon their cycle. The snowshoe-rabbits

build up through a period of years until they reach a climax when they seem

to be everywhere; then with dramatic suddenness their pestilence falls upon

them. Some zoologists have even suggested a biological law: that the number

of individuals in a species never remains constant, but always rises and

falls-the higher the animal and the slower its breeding-rate, the longer

its period of fluctuation.*

*During most of the nineteenth century the African buffalo was a common

creature on the veldt. It was a powerful beast with few natural enemies,

and if its census could have been taken by decades, it would have proved to

be increasing steadily. Then toward the century's end it reached its

climax, and was suddenly struck by a plague of rinderpest. Afterwards the

buffalo was almost a curiosity, extinct in many parts of its range. In the

last fifty years it has again slowly built up its numbers. *

*As for man, there is little reason to think that he can in the long run

escape the fate of other creatures, and if there is a biological law of

flux and reflux, his situation is now a highly perilous one. During ten

thousand years his numbers have been on the upgrade in spite of wars,

pestilences, and famines. This increase in population has become more and

more rapid. Biologically, man has for too long a time been rolling an

uninterrupted run of sevens. *

When he awoke in the middle of the morning, he felt a sudden sense of

pleasure. He had feared he would be sicker than ever, but he felt much

better. He was not choking any more, and also his hand felt cooler. The

swelling had gone down. On the preceding day he had felt so bad, from

whatever other trouble had struck him, that he had had no time to think

about the hand. Now both the hand and the illness seemed better, as if the

one had stopped the other and they had both receded. By noon he was feeling

clear-headed and not even particularly weak.

He ate some lunch, and decided that he could make it down to Johnson's. He

did not bother to pack up everything. He took his precious notebooks and

his camera. At the last moment also, as if by some kind of compulsion, he

picked up the hammer, carried it to the car, and threw it in on the floor

by his feet. He drove off slowly, using his right hand as little as

possible.

At Johnson's everything was quiet. He let the car roll to a stop at the

gasoline-pump. Nobody came out to fill his tank, but that was not

peculiar,, because the Johnson pump, like so many in the mountains, was

tended on a haphazard basis. He blew the horn, and waited again. After

another minute he got out, and went up the rickety steps which led to the

room serving as an informal store where campers could pick up cigarettes

and canned goods. He went in, but there was nobody there.

He had a certain sense of surprise. As often, when he had been by himself

for a while, he was not exactly sure what day it might be. Wednesday, he

thought. But it might be Tuesday or Thursday. Yet he was certain that it

was somewhere in the middle of the week, not a Sunday. On a Sunday, or even

for a whole weekend, the Johnsons might possibly shut up the store and go

somewhere on a trip of their own. They were easygoing and did not believe

too strongly in letting business interfere with pleasure. Yet they were

really dependent to a large extent upon the sales which the store made

during the fishing season; they could hardly afford to go away very long.

And if they had gone on a vacation, they would have locked the door. Still

you never could tell about these mountain people. The incident might even

be worth a paragraph in his thesis. In any case, his tank was nearly empty.

The pump was unlocked, and so he helped himself to ten gallons of gas and

with difficulty scrawled a check which he left on the counter along with a

note: "Found you all away. Took 10 gal. Ish."

As he drove down the road, he had suddenly a slight sense of uneasiness-the

Johnsons gone on a weekday, the door unlocked, no fishermen, a car going by

in the night, and (most of all) those men who had run away when they had

seen another man lying sick in his bunk in a lonely mountain cabin. Yet the

day was bright, and his hand was not paining him much; moreover, he seemed

to be cured of that other strange infection, if it was something else and

not the snake-bite. He felt almost back to normal again. Now the road wound

down restfully between open groves of pine trees along a little rushing

stream. By the time he came to Black Creek Power-house, he felt normal in

his mind again also.

At the power-house everything looked as usual. He heard the whir of the big

generators, and saw the streams of foaming water still bursting out from

beneath. A light was burning on the bridge. He thought to himself, "I

suppose nobody bothers ever to turn that out. They have so much electricity

that they don't need to economize."

He considered going across the bridge to the power-house, just to see

somebody and allay the strange fears which he had begun to feel. But the

sight and sound of everything running normally were reassuring, signs that

after all the power-house was working as usual, even though he saw no

people. There was nothing remarkable about not seeing people. The process

was so nearly automatic that only a few men were employed there, and they

kept indoors mostly.

Just as he was leaving the power-house behind, a large collie ran out from

behind one of the buildings. From the other side of the creek, it barked

loudly and violently at Ish. It ran back and forth excitedly.

"Fool dog!" he thought. "What's it so excited about? Is it trying to tell

me not to steal the power-house?" People certainly tended to overestimate

the intelligence of dogs!

Rounding the curve, he left the sound of barking behind. But the sight of

the dog had been another evidence of normality. Ish began to whistle

contentedly. It was ten miles now until he came to the first town, a little

place called Hutsonville.

*Consider the case of Captain Maclear's rat. This interesting rodent

inhabited Christmas Island, a small bit of tropical verdure some two

hundred miles south of Java. The species was first described for science in

1887, the skull being noted as large and strongly built, with beaded

supra-orbital edges and the anterior edge of the zygomatic plate projecting

forward conspicuously. *

*A naturalist observed the rats as populating the island "in swarms, "

feeding upon fruit and young shoots. To the rats the island was as a whole

world, an earthly paradise. The observer noted: "They seem to breed all the

year round." Yet such was the luxuriance of the tropical growth that the

rats had not attained such numbers as to provide competition among members

of the species. The individual rats were extremely well nourished, and even

unduly fat. *

*In 1903 some new disease sprang up. Because of their crowding and also

probably because of the softened condition of the individuals, the rats

proved universally susceptible, and soon were dying by thousands. In spite

of great numbers, in spite of an abundant supply of food, in spite of a

very rapid breeding rate, the species is extinct. *

He came over the rise, and saw Hutsonville a mile away. Just as he started

to slide down the grade, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of

something which turned him inwardly cold. Automatically he tramped hard on

the brake. He walked back, scarcely believing that he had really seen it.

Just there at the side of the road, in full view, lay the body of a fully

clothed man; ants were crawling over the face. The body must have lain

there a day or two at least. Why had it not been seen? He did not look

closely or long, obviously the thing to do was to get into Hutsonville, and

tell the Coroner as soon as possible. He hurried back to the car.

Yet as he started again, he had a deep feeling inside him somewhere,

strangely, that this was not a case for the Coroner, and that possibly

there would even be no Coroner. He had seen no one at the Johnson's or at

the power-house, and he had not met a single car on the road. The only

things that seemed real from all the old life had been the light burning at

the power-house and the quiet hum of the great generators at their work.

Then, as he came to the first houses, he suddenly breathed more easily, for

there on a vacant lot a hen was quietly scratching in the dust, a

half-dozen chicks beside her, and a little farther on, a black-and-white

cat wandered across the sidewalk as unconcernedly as it would have done

upon any other June day.

The heat of the afternoon lay heavy on the street, and he saw no one. "Bad

as a Mexican town," he thought, "everyone taking a siesta." Then suddenly

he realized that he had said it as a man whistles to keep up his courage.

He came to the business center, stopped the car by the curb, and got out.

There was nobody.

He tried the door of a little restaurant. It was open. He went in.

"Hi!" he yelled.

Nobody came. Not even an echo spoke back to reassure him.

The door of the bank was locked, although the hour was well before closing

time, and he was sure (the more he thought of it) that the day must be

Tuesday or Wednesday or possibly Thursday. "What am I anyway?" he thought.

"Rip van Winkle?" Even so, Rip van Winkle, though he had slept twenty

years, had come back to a village that was still full of people.

The door of the hardware store beyond the bank was open.

He went in, and again he called, and again there was not even an echo

coming back for answer. He looked in at the bakery; this time there was

only a tiny noise such as a scuttling mouse could make.

Had the people all gone to a baseball game? Even so, they would have closed

the stores. He went back to his car, got into the seat, and looked around.

Was he himself delirious, still lying on his bunk, really? He was half

inclined merely to drive on; panic was rising up inside him. Now he noticed

that several cars were parked along the street, just as they might be on

any not too busy afternoon. He could not merely drive on, he decided,

because he must report the dead man. So he pushed upon the horn-rig, and

the great blatant squawk resounded obscenely along the deserted street

through the quiet of the afternoon. He blew twice, waited, and blew twice

again. Again and again, in -rising panic, he pressed down. As he pressed,

he looked around, hoping to see somebody come popping out from a door or at

least a head at a window. He paused, and again there was only silence,

except that somewhere far off he heard the strident cackling of a hen.

"Must have scared an egg out of her!" he thought.

A fat dog came waddling around the comer and down the sidewalk, the kind of

dog you see along Main Street in any small town. Ish got out of the car,

and confronted the dog. "You haven't been missing any meals, anyway," he

said. (Then he had a sudden feeling of tightness in die throat when he

thought of things the dog might be eating.) The dog was not friendly; it

skirted him, keeping distance; then it went on down the street. He made no

effort to call it closer or to follow it; after all, the dog could not tell

him.

I could play detective by going into some of these stores and looking

around," he thought. Then he had a better idea.

Across the street was a little pool-room where he had often stopped to buy

a newspaper. He went over to it. The door was locked. He looked through the

window, and saw newspapers in the rack. He stared hard against the

reflection of the light in the window, and suddenly he saw that there were

headlines as large as for Pearl Harbor. He read:

CRISIS ACUTE

What crisis? With sudden determination he strode back to the car, and

picked up the hammer. A moment later he stood with the heavy head poised in

front of the door.

Then suddenly all the restraints of habit stopped him. Civilization moved

in, and held his arm, almost physically. You couldn't do this! You didn't

break into a store this way--you, a law-abiding citizen! He glanced up and

down the street, as if a policeman or a posse might be bearing down upon

him.

But the empty street brought him back again, and panic overbore the

restraints. "Hell," he thought, I can pay for the door if I have to!"

With a wild feeling of burning his bridges, of leaving civilization behind,

he swung the heavy hammer-head with all his force against the door-lock.

The wood splintered, the door flew open, he stepped in.

His first shock came when he picked up the newspaper. *The Chronicle,* the

one he remembered, was thick-twenty or thirty pages at least. The newspaper

he picked up was like a little country weekly, a single folded sheet. It

was dated Wednesday of the preceding week.

The headlines told him what was most essential. The United States from

coast to coast was overwhelmed by the attack of some new and unknown

disease of unparalleled rapidity of spread, and fatality. Estimates for

various cities, admittedly little more than guesses, indicated that between

25 percent and 35 percent of the population had already died. No reports,

he read, were available for Boston, Atlanta, and New Orleans, indicating

that the news-services in those cities had already broken down. Rapidly

scanning the rest of the paper, he gained a variety of impressions--a

hodge-podge which he could scarcely put together in any logical order. In

its symptoms the disease was Re a kind of super-measles. No one was sure in

what part of the world it had originated; aided by airplane travel, it had

sprung up almost simultaneously in every center of civilization, outrunning

all attempts at quarantine.

In an interview a notable bacteriologist indicated that the emergence of

some new disease had always been a possibility which had worried the more

far-thinking epidemiologists. He mentioned in the past such curious though

minor outbreaks as the English sweat and Q-fever. As for its origin, he

offered three possibilities. It might have emerged from some animal

reservoir of disease; it might be caused by some new microorganism, most

Rely a virus, produced by mutation; it might be an escape, possibly even a

vindictive release, from some laboratory of bacteriological warfare. The

last was apparently the popular idea. The disease was assumed to be

airborne, possibly upon particles of dust. A curious feature was that the

isolation of the individual seemed to be of no avail.

In an interview conducted by trans-Atlantic telephone, a crusty old British

sage had commented, "Man has been growing more stupid for several thousand

years; I myself shall waste no tears at his demise." On the other hand an

equally crusty American critic had got religion: "Only faith can save us

now; I am praying hourly."

A certain amount of looting, particularly of liquor stores was reported. On

the whole, however, order had been well preserved, possibly through fear.

Louisville and Spokane reported conflagrations, out of control because of

decimated fire-departments.

Even in what they must have suspected to be their last issue, the gentlemen

of the press, however, had not neglected to include a few of their beloved

items of curiosity. In Omaha a religious fanatic had run naked through the

streets, calling out the end of the world and the opening of the Seventh

Seal. In Sacramento a crazed woman had opened the cages of a circus

menagerie for fear that the animals might starve to death, and had been

mauled by a lioness. Of more scientific interest, the Director of the San

Diego zoo reported his apes and monkeys to be dying off rapidly, the other

animals unaffected.

As he read, Ish felt himself growing weak with the cumulative piling up of

horror and an overwhelming sense of solitude. Yet he still read on,

fascinated.

Civilization, the human race-at least, it seemed to have gone down

gallantly. Many people were reported as escaping from the cities, but those

remaining had suffered, as far as he could make out from the newspaper a

week old, no disgraceful panic. Civilization had retreated, but it had

carried its wounded along, and had faced the foe. Doctors and nurses had

stayed at their posts, and thousands more had enlisted as helpers. Whole

areas of cities had been designated as hospital zones and points of

concentration. All ordinary business had ceased, but food was still handled

on an emergency basis. Even with a third of the population dead, telephone

service along with water, light, and power still remained in most cities.

In order to avoid intolerable conditions which might lead to a total

breakdown of morale, the authorities were enforcing strict regulations for

immediate mass burials.

He read the paper, and then read it through again more carefully. There was

obviously nothing else he needed to do. When he had finished it a second

time, he went out and sat in his car. There was no particular reason, he

realized, why he should sit in his own car rather than in some other. There

was no more question of property right, and yet he felt more comfortable

being where he had been before. (The fat dog walked along the street again,

but he did not call to the dog.) He sat there a long time, thinking;

rather, he scarcely thought, but his mind seemed merely turning over

without getting anywhere.

The sun was nearly down when he roused himself. He started the engine, and

drove the car down the street, stopping now and then to blow a blast upon

the horn. He turned off into a side street, and made the rounds of the

town, blowing the horn methodically. The town was small, and in a quarter

of an hour he was back where he had started. He had seen no one, and heard

no answer. He had observed four dogs, several cats, a considerable number

of scattered hens, one cow grazing in a vacant lot with a bit of broken

rope dangling from her neck. Nosing along the doorway of a very

decent-looking house, there had been a large rat.

He did not stop in the business district again, but drove on and came to

what he now knew to be the best house in town. He got out of the car,

carrying the hammer with him. This time he did not hesitate before the

locked door; he struck it hard, three times, and it crashed inwards. As he

had supposed, there was a large radio in the living-room.

He made a quick round of inspection, downstairs and up. "There's nobody!"

he decided. Then the grim suggestion of the word itself struck him:

*Nobody-no body! *

Feeling the two meanings already coalescing in his mind, he returned to the

living-room. He snapped the radio on, and saw that the electricity was

still working. He let the tubes warm up, and then searched carefully. Only

faint crackles of static impinged on his alerted ear-drums; there was no

program. He shifted to the short-wave, but it too was silent. Methodically

he searched both bands again. Of course, he thought, some stations might

still be operating; they would probably not be on a twenty-four-hour

schedule.

He left the radio tuned to a wave-length which was--or had been--that of a

powerful station. If it came on at any time, he would hear it. He went and

lay on the davenport.

In spite of the horror of the situation he felt a curious spectator's sense

about it all, as if he were watching the last act of a great drama. This,

he realized, was characteristic of his personality. He was-had been-was

(well, no matter)--a student, an incipient scholar, and such a one was

necessarily oriented to observe, rather than to participate.

Thus observing, he even gained a momentary ironic satisfaction by

contemplating the catastrophe as a demonstration of a dictum which he had

heard an economics professor once propound--"The trouble you're expecting

never happens; it's always something that sneaks up the other way." Mankind

had been trembling about destruction through war, and had been having bad

dreams of cities blown to pieces along with their inhabitants, of animals

killed too, and of the very vegetation blighted off the face of the earth.

But actually mankind seemed merely to have been removed rather neatly, with

a minimum of disturbance. This, he thought vaguely, would offer interesting

conditions of life to the survivors, if eventually there were any.

He lay comfortably on the davenport; the evening was warm. Physically he

was exhausted from his illness, and he was equally spent emotionally. Soon

he was sleeping.

*High overhead, moon and planets and stars swung in their long smooth

curves. They had no eyes, and they saw not; yet from the time when man's

fancy first formed within him, he has imagined that they looked down upon

the earth. *

*And if so we may still imagine, and if they looked down upon the earth

that night, what did they see? *

*Then we must say that they saw no change. Though smoke from stacks and

chimneys and campfires no longer rose to dim the atmosphere, yet still

smoke rose from volcanos and from forest-fires. Seen even from the moon,

the planet that night must have shown only with its accustomed splendor--no

brighter, no dimmer.*

He awoke in the full light. Flexing his hand, he found that the pain of the

snake-bite had shrunk back to local soreness. His head felt clear too, and

he realized that the other illness, if it had been another illness and not

an effect of the snake-bite, had also grown better. Then suddenly he

started, and was aware of something which he had not considered before. The

obvious explanation was that he had actually had this new disease, and that

it had combatted with the snake-venom in his blood, the one neutralizing

the other. That at least offered the simplest explanation of why he was

still alive.

As he lay there quietly on the davenport, he was very calm. The isolated

bits of the puzzle were now beginning to fit into their places. The men who

fled in panic at seeing someone lying sick in the cabin--they had merely

been some poor fugitives, afraid that the pestilence had already preceded

them. The car that had gone up the road in the darkness had carried other

fugitives, possibly even the Johnsons. The excited collie had been trying

to tell him that strange things had happened at the power-house.

But as he lay there, he was not greatly perturbed even at the thought that

he might be the only person left in the world. Possibly that was because he

had not seen many people for some time, so that the shock of the new

realization could not come to him as strongly as to one who had seen his

fellow-creatures dying on all sides. At the same time he could not really

believe, and he had no reason to believe, that he alone was left upon the

earth. The last report in the paper indicated that the population had

merely shrunk by perhaps a third. The evacuation of a small town like

Hutsonville showed merely that the population had scattered or withdrawn to

some other center. Before he shed any tears over the destruction of

civilization and the death of man, he should discover whether civilization

was destroyed and whether man was dead. Obviously the first call was for

him to return to the house where his parents had lived-or, he hoped, might

still be living. Having thus laid out for himself a definite plan for the

day, he felt the quiet satisfaction which always came to him when confusion

of mind yielded even to temporary certainty.

Getting up, he searched both radio bands again, and again without result.

He went into the kitchen; throwing open the door of the refrigerator, he

found that it was still working. On the shelves was a fair assortment of

food, though not as much as might have been expected. Apparently supplies

had failed a little before the house had been abandoned, and the larder was

comparatively scant. Nevertheless there were half a dozen eggs, most of a

pound of butter, and some bacon, along with several heads of lettuce, a

little celery, and a few odds and ends. Looking into a cupboard, he found a

can of grapefruit-juice; in a bread-drawer there was a loaf of bread, dry

but not impossible. He estimated that it might have been there for five

days, and so he had a better idea than before of the time at which the town

might have been abandon With such materials at hand he was enough of a

camper to have built a fire outdoors and contrived an excellent meal, but

he snapped the switches of the electric stove and felt the heat begin to

radiate. He cooked himself a hearty breakfast, managing even to make the

bread into acceptable toast. As always when he came out of the mountains,

he was hungry for fresh green stuff, and so to his conventional breakfast

of bacon, eggs and coffee, he added a generous head-lettuce salad.

Returning to the davenport, he helped himself from a red lacquer box on the

near-by table, and smoked an after-breakfast cigarette. As yet, he

reflected, the maintenance of life offered no problem.

The cigarette was not even yet badly dried out. With a good breakfast and a

good cigarette, he did not feel himself worrying. Actually he had put worry

in abeyance, and had decided that he would not indulge in it until he had

really found out just how much need there was.

When he had finished the cigarette, he reflected that there was really no

need even to wash the dishes, but since he was naturally careful, he went

to the kitchen and made sure that he had left the refrigerator closed and

had turned off the burners on the stove. Then he picked up the hammer,

which had already proved so useful, and went out by the shattered front

door. He got into his car, and started for home.

A half mile beyond the town, he caught sight of the cemetery. He realized

that he had not thought of it on the preceding day. Without getting out of

the car, he noticed a long row of new individual graves, and also a

bull-dozer near a large heap of earth. Probably, he decided, there had not

really been many people left to abandon Hutsonville at the end.

Beyond the cemetery the road sloped down through flattening terrain. At all

the emptiness, depression settled down on him again; he longed even for a

single clattering truck suddenly to come across the rise ahead, but there

was no truck.

Some steers stood in a field and some horses with them. They switched their

tails at the flies, as they might on any hot summer morning. Above them the

spokes of the windmill re, volved slowly in the breeze, and below the

watering-trough there was a little patch of green and trampled muddy

ground, as there always was-and that was all.

Yet this road below Hutsonville never carried much traffic, and on any

morning he might have driven several miles without seeing anyone. It was

different when he came to the highway. The lights were still burning at the

junction, and automatically he pulled to a stop because they were red.

But where trucks and buses and cars should have been streaming by, crowding

the four lanes, there was only emptiness. After he had paused just a moment

at the red lights, he drove on through them, even though feeling a slight

sense of wrongdoing as he did so.

Beyond that, on the highway with all the four lanes to himself, everything

was more ghost-like than before. He seemed to drive half in a daze, and

only now and then some special scene brought him out, and fixed itself in

his consciousness....

Something was loping along the inner lane ahead of him. He drew up on it

fast from behind. A dog? No, he saw the sharp ears and the light lean legs,

gray shading into yellow. That was no farm dog. It was a coyote, calmly

loping along the highway in broad daylight. Strange how soon it had known

that the world had changed, and that it could take new freedoms! He drew up

close and honked his horn, and the beast quickened its pace a little and

swung over into the other lane and off across the fields, seemingly not

much alarmed....

The two cars lay sprawled at crazy angles blocking both lanes. It had been

a bad accident. He pulled out onto the shoulder and stopped. A man's body

lay crushed beneath one car. He got out to look. There was no other body

although the pavement was spotted with blood. Even if he had seen any

particular reason to try, he could not have raised the car from the man's

body to give it burial. He drove on....

His mind did not even bother to register the name of the town where he

stopped for gasoline, though it was a large one. The electricity was still

working; he took down the nozzle from the gas-pump at a large station and

filled the tank. Since his car had been so long in the mountains, he

checked the radiator and battery, and put in a quart of oil. He saw that

one tire needed more air and as he pressed the air-hose against the valve,

he heard the motor suddenly start to build up the pressure again in the

tank. Yes, man had gone, but so recently that all his well-contrived

automatic processes were still carrying on without his care....

At the main street of some other town he stopped, and blew a long blast on

the horn. He had no real expectation that he would have any reply, but

there was something about the look of this street which seemed more normal

than those of other towns. Many cars were parked at the meters where each

one showed the red flag of a violation. It might have been some Sunday

morning with many cars parked overnight and the stores not yet open or

people beginning to circulate. But it was not early morning, for now the

sun was almost overhead. Then he saw what had made him pause, and what gave

the place an illusion of animation. In front Of a restaurant called *The

Derby* a neon sign was still in full activity-a little horse galloping

hard, its legs still going as actively as ever. In the full sunlight the

faint pink glow was scarcely visible except for its motion. He looked, and

as he looked, he caught the rhythm--*one, two, three.* (And at *three* the

feet of the little horse were close tucked up under its body as if it were

clear in the air.) Four-they came back to the half position, and the legs

stretched out as if the body were low along the ground. *One, two, three,

four,* it went. *One, two, three, four.* It galloped in a frenzy of

activity still, and yet in all its galloping it arrived nowhere, and now

even for most of its time it galloped with no eye to observe. As he looked,

it seemed to him a gallant little horse, though a futile and a foolish one.

The horse, suddenly he thought, was like that civilization of which man had

been so proud, galloping so hard and yet never arriving anywhere; and

sometime destined, when once the power failed, to grow still forever...

He saw smoke rising against the sky. His heart leaped up, and he turned

quickly off on a side road, and drove toward the smoke. But even before he

reached it, he knew that he would find no one there, and his spirit fell

again. He drove up to the smoke, and saw then that it was a small farmhouse

quietly beginning to burn up. There were many reasons, he decided, why a

fire might start thus without people. A pile of greasy rags might ignite

spontaneously, or some electric apparatus might have been left-on, or a

motor in a refrigerator might jam and begin to burn. The little house was

obviously doomed. There was nothing he could do, and no special reason why

he should do it if he could. He turned around, and headed back to the

highway ...

He did not drive fast, and he stopped often to investigate, rather

half-heartedly. Here and there he saw bodies, but in general he found only

emptiness. Apparently the onset of the disease had been slow enough so that

people were not usually struck down in the streets. Once he passed through

a town where the smell of corpses was thick in the air. He remembered what

he had read in the newspaper; apparently there had been concentrations at

the last upon certain areas, and in these the corpses were now to be found

most thickly. There was all too much evidence of death in that town and

none of rife. He saw no reason to stop to investigate. Surely no one would

linger there longer than necessary.

In the late afternoon he came across the crest of the hills, and saw the

Bay lie bright beneath the westering sun. Smokes rose here and there from

the vast expanse of city, but they did not look like smokes rising from

chimneys. He drove on toward the house where he had lived with his parents.

He had no hope. Miracle enough it was that he himself had survivedmiracle

upon miracle if the plague had also spared the others of his own family!

From the boulevard he turned into San Lupo Drive. Every thing looked much

the same, although the sidewalks were not as well swept as the standard of

San Lupo Drive required. It had always been a street, of eminent

respectability, and even yet, he reflected, it preserved decorum. No corpse

lay on the street; that would b e unthinkable in San Lupo Drive. He saw the

Hatfields' old gray cat sleeping on their porch-step in the sun, as he had

seen her -a hundred times before. Aroused by the sound of the car as he

drove by, she rose up and stretched luxuriously.

He let the car roll to a stop in front of the house where he had lived so

long. He blew two blasts on the horn, and waited. Nothing! He got out of

the car, and walked up the steps into the house. Only after he had entered

did he think it a little strange that the door was not even locked.

Inside, things were in good-enough order. He glanced about, apprehensively,

but there was nothing at which a man would hesitate to look. He searched

around the living-room for some note left behind to tell him where they had

gone. There was no note.

Upstairs also everything looked much as usual, but in his parents' bedroom

both the beds were unmade. Perhaps it was that which made him begin to feel

giddy and sick. He walked out of the room, feeling himself unsteady.

Holding by the rail, he made it downstairs again. "The kitchen!" he

thought, and his mind cleared a trifle at the thought of something definite

to do.

As he opened the swinging door, the fact of motion within the room struck

his senses. Then he saw that it was only the second hand of the electric

clock above the sink, steadily moving on past the vertical, beginning its

long swoop toward six again. At that moment also he started wildly at a

sudden noise, only to realize that the motor of the electric refrigerator,

as if disturbed by his coming, had begun to whir. In quick reaction he was

deathly ill, and found himself vomiting into the sink.

Recovered, he went out again, and sat in the car. He was no longer ill, but

he felt weak and utterly despondent. If he made a detective-like

investigation, searching in cupboards and drawers, he could probably

discover something. But of what use thus to torture himself?. The main part

of the story was clear. There were no bodies in the house; of that at least

lie could be thankful. Neither, he believed, would there be any

ghosts-although the faithful clock and refrigerator were rather too

ghost-like.

Should he go back into the house, or go somewhere else? At first he thought

that he could not enter again. Then he realized that just as he had come

here, so his father and mother, if by any chance they still lived, would

also return here looking for him. After half an hour, overcoming

repugnance, he went back into the house.

Again he wandered through the empty rooms. They spoke with all the, pathos

of any dwelling-place left without people. Now and then some little thing

cried out to him more poipantly-his father's new encyclopedia (purchased

with qualms as to the expense), his mother's potted pelargoniums (now

needing water), the barometer that his father used to tap each morning when

he came down to breakfast. Yes, it was a simple house-what you would expect

of a man who had taught history in high school and liked books, and of a

woman who had made it into a home for him and served on the Y.W.C.A. board,

and of their only child--"He always does so well in his studies!"--for whom

they had cherished ambitions and for whose education they had made

sacrifices.

After a while he sat down in the living-room. Looking at the familiar

chairs and pictures and books, he gradually came to feel less despondent.

As twilight fell, he realized that he had not eaten since morning. He was

not hungry, but his weakness might be partly the result of lack of food. He

rummaged around a little, and opened a can of soup. He found only the stub

of a loaf of bread, and it was mouldy. The refrigerator supplied butter and

stale cheese. He located crackers in a cupboard. The gas-pressure at the

kitchen stove was very low, but he managed to warm up the soup.

Afterwards he sat on the porch in the dark. In spite of his meal he felt

unsteady, and he realized that he was suffering from shock.

San Lupo Drive was high enough on the slope of the hills to be proud of its

view. As he sat there looking out, everything seemed just about the same.

Apparently the processes behind the production of electricity must be

almost completely automatic. In the hydro-electric plants the flow of water

was still keeping the generators in motion. Moreover, when things had

started to go to pieces, someone must have ordered that the street-lights

be left turned on. Now he saw beneath him all the intricate pattern of the

lights in the East Bay cities, and beyond that the yellow chains of lights

on the Bay Bridge, and still farther through the faint evening mist, the

glow of the San Francisco lights and the fainter chains on the Golden Gate

Bridge. Even the trafficlights were still working, changing from green to

red. High upon the bridge-towers the flashes silently sent their warnings

to airplanes which would no longer ever be flying. (Far to the south,

however, somewhere in Oakland, there was one wholly black section. There,

some switch must have failed, or some fuse have burned out.) Even the

advertising signs, some of them at least, had been left burning.

Pathetically, they flashed out their call to buy, though no longer were

there any customers left or any salesmen. One great sign in particular, its

lower part hidden behind a near-by building, still sent out its message

*Drink* although he could not see what he was thus commanded to drink.

He watched it, half-fascinated. Drink-blackness. *Drink*--blackness.

*Drink.* "Well, why not?" he thought, and going in, he came out again with

a bottle of his father's brandy.

Yet the brandy had little bite, and brought no satisfaction.

in probably not the type," he thought, "to drink myself to death." He found

himself really more interested in watching the sign that still flashed

there. Drink-blackness. *Drink* blackness. *Drink. How* long would the

lights burn? What would make them go out in the end? What else would

continue? What was going to happen to all that man had built up through the

centuries and now had left behind him?

I suppose," he thought again, "I ought to be considering suicide. No, too

soon. I am alive, and so others probably are alive. We are just like gas

molecules in a near-vacuum, circulating around, one unable to make contact

with the other."

Again a kind of dullness verging on despair slowly came settling upon him.

What if he did live on, eating as a scavenger at all those great supplies

of food which were piled up in every storeroom? What if he coul d live well

and even if he could draw together a few other survivors? What would it all

amount to? It would be different if one could pick half a dozen friends for

fellow-survivors, but this way they would probably be dull and stupid

people, or even vicious ones. He looked out and saw still the great sign

flashing far off. *Drink*--blackness. *Drink*--blackness. *Drink.* And again

he wondered how long it would keep flashing while there were no more

vending-machines or salesmen offering whatever it was one was to drink, and

from that he thought back to some of the other things he had seen that day,

wondering what would happen to the coyote that he had seen loping along the

highway, and what would happen to the cattle and horses standing by the

watering-trough beneath the slowly revolving spokes of the windmill. How

long indeed would the windmill still revolve and pump its water from the

depths of the earth?

Then suddenly he gave a quick start, and he realized that he had again a

will to five! At least, if he could be no more a participant, he would be a

spectator, and a spectator trained to observe what was happening. Even

though the curtain had been rung down on man, here was the opening of the

greatest of all dramas for a student such as he. During thousands of years

man had impressed himself upon the world. Now man was gone, certainly for a

while, perhaps forever. Even if some survivors were left, they would be a

long time in again obtaining supremacy. What would happen to the world and

its creatures without man? That he was left to see!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 2*

Yet, after he was in bed, no sleep came to him. As the chilly arms of the

summer fog lapped around the house in the darkness, he felt first

loneliness, and then fear, and finally panic. He rose from his bed.

Wrapping himself in a bathrobe, he sat before the radio, frantically

searching the bands. But he heard only, far-off, the rasp and crackle of

static, and there was no one.

With a sudden thought he tried the telephone. As he lifted the receiver, he

heard the low hum of the clear wire. He dialed desperately a number-any

number! On some distant house he heard the telephone ring, ring again. He

waited, thinking of the sound echoing through empty rooms. After it had

rung ten times, he hung up. He tried a second number, and a thirdand then

no others.

Working with a new thought, he rigged up a light with a reflector, and

standing on the front porch, high above the city, he sent the flashes into

the night--*short-short-short, long-long-long, short-short-short*--the old

call of the SOS, which had gone out so often from despairing men. But there

was no reply from all the expanse of the city. After a while he realized

that with all the street-lights still burning there was too much

illumination; his own petty flashing would hardly be noticeable.

So he went into the house again. The foggy night sent a chill into him. He

turned on the thermostat, and in a moment he heard the whir of the

oil-burner. With electricity still working and a full tank of fuel-oil

there was no trouble. He sat, and after a while turned out the lights in

the house, feeling in some strange way that they were too conspicuous. He

let the fog and the darkness wrap him round and conceal him. Still he felt

the fear of loneliness, and as he sat there, he laid the hammer close at

hand, ready for grasping if there should be need.

A horrible cry broke the darkness! He trembled violently, and then realized

that it was only the call of a mating cat, the sort of sound which in any

night one might have heard now and then, even on decorous San Lupo Drive.

The caterwauling rose to a climax, and then the growl of a charging dog cut

across it, and the night was silent again.

*For them the world of twenty thousand years was overthrown. In the

kennels, swollen-tongued, they lay dead of thirst-pointers, collies,

poodles, toy pekinese, tall hounds. The luckier ones, not confined,

wandered loose through city and countryside; drinking at the streams, at

the fountains, at the gold-fish ponds; hunting here and there for what they

might find for eating-scurrying after a hen, picking up a squirrel in the

park. And gradually, the pangs of hunger breaking down the long centuries

of civilization, they drew closer to where the unburied corpses lay. *

*Now no longer would Best-of-Breed go for stance, and shape of head, and

markings. Now Champion Golden Lad of Piedmont IV no longer outranked the

worst mongrel of the alley. The prize, which was life itself, would go to

the one of keenest brain, staunchest limb, and strongest jaw, who could

best shape himself to meet the new ways and who in the old competition of

the wilderness could win the means of life. *

*Peaches, the honey-colored spaniel, sat disconsolate, growing weaker with

hunger, too stupid to live by craft, too short-legged to live by pursuit of

prey... Spot, the children's mongrel pet, had the luck to find a liner of

kittens and kill them, not for fun but for food .... Ned, the wire-haired

terrier, who had always enjoyed being on his own and was by nature a tramp,

managed to get along fairly well .... Bridget, the red setter, shivered and

trembled, and now and then howled faintly with a howl that was scarcely

more than a moan; her gentle spirit found no will to live in a world

without master or mistress to love. *

That morning he worked out a plan. He felt sure that in an urban district

of two million people others must be left alive. The solution was obvious;

he must find someone, anyone. The problem was how to make contact.

First he set out to walk around the neighborhood, in the hope of

discovering someone he knew. But around the wellknown houses he saw no sign

of people. The lawns were parched; the flowers, wilting.

Returning home, he passed through the little park where he had often played

as a boy, climbing the tall rocks. Two Of them leaned together at the top

to form a kind of little cave, high and narrow. Ish had often played at

hiding there. It seemed a natural primitive refuge-place, and he looked

into it. There was no one.

He walked on across a broad surface of smooth rock that sloped with the

hillside. It was pitted with small round holes marking the places where

squaws had once pounded with stone pestles.

"The world of those Indians passed away," he thought. "And now our world

that followed theirs has passed too. And am I the only one?"

After reaching the house again, he got into his car, mapping out in his

head a route to cover the city so that few areas would be left out of the

sound of the horn. He drove along, hooting the horn about every minute and

then waiting, listening for some reply. As he drove, he looked about

curiously, appraising what had happened.

The streets had an early-morning look. Many cars were parked, and there was

little disorder. Fires were burning here and there, as he could see by

smoke-columns. An occasional body lay where the man had finally been

overcome, and near one of them he saw two dogs. At one street-comer, the

body of a man was hanging from the cross-arm of a telephone pole,

conspicuously labeled with a placard Looter. After he had passed this pole,

he came to a good-sized business district, and then he noticed indeed that

there must have been a certain amount of disorder. The big window of a

liquor-store was broken.

As he came to the end of the business district, he blew his horn again in

his regular routine, and half a minute later he started to hear a faint

honk from far away. For a moment he thought that his ears might merely be

tricking him.

He honked again quickly, and immediately this time he had a reply. His

heart sank--"Echo!" he thought. But then he honked again, a long and a

short, and as he listened carefully the reply came merely one long.

He turned, and drove in the direction of the sound, which he estimated must

be half a mile away. Having driven three blocks, he honked again and

waited. More to the right this time! He turned. Twisting through the

streets, he came to a blind end, turned around, and sought another way. He

honked, and the reply was closer. Straight ahead this time he went on,

overshot, and heard the next reply to the right and behind him. He took

another turn, and came to a small business district. Cars were parked along

the street, but he saw no one. He thought it strange that whoever was

signaling back to him did not stand in the street somewhere and wave. He

honked, and suddenly the reply was almost at his elbow. He stopped the car,

jumped out, and hurried along the sidewalk. In the front seat of a car

parked at the curb, he saw a man. Even as he looked, the man collapsed and

fell forward on the wheel. The horn, pressed down, emitted a long squawk as

the body slipped sideways to the seat. Coming closer, Ish smelled a reek of

whiskey. He saw the man with a long, straggly beard, his face bloated and

red, obviously in the last stages of passing-out. Ish looked around, and

saw that the liquor-store close by was wide open.

In sudden anger, Ish shook the yielding body. The man revived a little,

opened his eyes, and emitted a kind of grunt which might have meant, "What

is it?" Ish shoved the inert body to a sitting position; as he did so, the

man's hand fumbled for the half-empty bottle of whiskey which was propped

in the comer of the seat. Ish grabbed it, threw it out, and heard it

splinter on the curbing. He was filled only with a deep bitter anger and a

sense of horrible irony. Of all the survivors whom he might have found,

here was only a poor old drunk, good for nothing more in this world, or any

other. Then as the man's eyes opened and Ish looked into them, he felt

suddenly no more anger, but only a great deep pity.

Those eyes had seen too much. There was a fear in them and a horror that

could never be told. However gross the bloated body of the drunkard might

seem-somewhere, behind it all, lay a sensitive mind, and that mind had seen

more than it could endure. Escape and oblivion were all that could remain.

They sat there together on the seat. The eyes of the drunken man glanced

here and there, hardly under control. Their tragedy seemed to grow only

deeper. The breath came raspingly. On sudden impulse, Ish took the inert

wrist and felt for the pulse. It was weak and irregular. The man had been

drinking, doubtless, for a week. Whether he could last much longer was

questionable.

"This, then is it!" thought Ish. The survivor might have been a beautiful

girl, or a fine intelligent man, but it was only this drunkard, too far

gone for any help.

After a while Ish got out of the car. He went into the liquor store for

curiosity. A dead cat, it seemed, lay on the counter, but as he looked, it

stirred to life and he realized that it had merely been lying, after the

habit of cats, in such a position that it looked dead. The cat looked at

him with a kind of cold effrontery, as the duchess at the chambermaid. Ish

felt uncomfortable, and had to remind himself that this was the way cats

had always behaved. The cat seemed contented and looked well fed.

Glancing around the shelves, Ish saw what he had been curious about. The

man had not even bothered to pick out the better whiskey. Rot-gut had been

good enough for his purposes.

Coming out, Ish saw that the man had now managed to find another bottle

somewhere, and was taking a long drink. Ish realized that there was nothing

much he could do about it. Still, he wanted to make a last try.

He leaned in at the window of the car. The man, revived perhaps by his last

drink, was a trifle more alert. He looked at Ish, seeming able to focus his

eyes, and he smiled, rather pathetically.

"Hi-ah!" he said in a thick drawl.

"How are you?" said Ish.

"Ah-bar-el-low!" said the man.

Ish was trying to make out what the sounds meant. The man gave his pathetic

little child-like smile again, and repeated a trifle more clearly.

"Ah-nay-bar'l-low!"

Ish half caught it.

"Your name's Barello?" he asked. "No, Barlow?"

The man nodded at the second name, smiled again, and before Ish could do

anything, he was taking another drink. Ish felt himself close to tears, far

from anger. What difference did a man's name make now? And yet Mr. Barlow,

in his befuddled mind, was trying to make what had been in civilization the

first gesture of good will.

Then quite gently Mr. Barlow slumped down on the seat in stupor again, and

the whiskey from the unstoppered bottle gurgled out to the floor of the

car.

Ish hesitated. Should he cast in his lot with Mr. Barlow, get him sobered

up, and make him reform? From what he knew of alcoholics, he did not think

the prospects good. And by staying he might lose the chance to make contact

with some more likely person.

"You stay here," he said to the collapsed body, on chance that it might

still be able to hear. "I promise to come back."

Having said this, Ish felt he had fulfilled a kind of minimal duty. He had

really no hope. The eyes showed that Mr. Barlow had seen too much; the

pulse, that he had gone too far. Ish drove away, making note, however, of

the location.

*As for the cats, they had known little more than five thousand years of

man's domination, and had always accepted it with reservations. Those

unlucky enough to be left penned inside houses, soon died of thirst. But

those who had been on the outside managed better than the dogs to

scramble-along one way or another. Their hunting of mice became an

industry, not an amusement. hey stalked birds now to satisfy the quick pang

of hunger. They watched by the mole-tunnel in the uncut lawn, and by the

gopher-burrow in the vacant lot. They prowled in the streets and alleys,

here and there discovering some garbage-can that the rats had not yet

looted. They spread outward from the edge of the city, invading the haunts

of the quail and the rabbits. There they met with the real wild-cat, and

the end was quick and sudden, as the stronger inhabitant of the woods tore

the city cat to pieces.*

The sound of the next horn was more lively. *Toot, toot, toot,* it went,

*toot-ta-toot, toot, toot, toot!* No drunk man was handling that one. When

he came close to the sound of it, he saw a man and a woman standing there

together. They laughed, and waved at him. He drove up, and got out of the

car. The man was a big fellow, dressed flamboyantly in a loud sport-coat.

The woman was young enough and good-looking, in a blowsy way. Her mouth was

a red blob of lipstick. Her fingers glittered with many rings.

Ish took two steps forward, and then stopped, suddenly. *"Two is company

and three is a crowd."* The man's look was definitely hostile. And now Ish

noticed that the right hand was in the bulging side-pocket of the

sport-coat.

"How are you?" said Ish, halting.

"Oh, we're doing fine," said the man. The woman merely giggled, but Ish

noticed that there was invitation in her smile, and suddenly, more than

ever, he sensed danger. "Yes," the man went on, "yes, we're doing fine.

Plenty to eat, plenty to drink, and lots of--" He made an obscene gesture,

and grinned at the woman. She giggled again, and again Ish saw invitation

and sensed danger.

He wondered what the woman could have been in the old life. Now she looked

merely like a well-to-do prostitute. There were enough diamonds on her

fingers to stock a jewelry store.

"Is anybody else left alive?"

They looked at each other. The woman giggled again; it seemed to be her

only answer.

"No," said the man. "Nobody around here, I guess." He paused, and glanced

at the woman again. "Not now, anyway."

Ish looked at the hand which the man still kept in the sidepocket of the

coat. He saw the woman move her hips provocatively, and her eyes narrowed a

little, as if she said that she would take the victor. The eyes of this

couple were not suffering like the eyes of the drunk man. They did not seem

to have sensitive minds, and yet perhaps they too had suffered more than

men and women could stand, and in their own way had gone bad. Suddenly, Ish

realized that he was closer to death, perhaps, than he had ever been

before.

"Which way are you going?" said the man, and the import of his words was

clear.

"Oh, just wandering around," said Ish, and the woman giggled.

Ish turned and walked toward the car, more than half expecting to be shot

in the back. He made it, got into the car, and drove away...

He had heard no sounds this time, but as he turned the corner, there she

was, standing in the middle of the street, a long-legged teen-age girl with

stringy blond hair. She stood, suddenly stopped, as a deer stands surprised

in a glade. With a quick movement of a shrewd and hunted thing, she leaned

forward, squinting against the sun into the windshield, trying to see who

was there. Then she turned and ran swiftly, again like a deer. She dodged

through a hole in a board fence and was gone.

He walked down to the hole in the fence, and looked through it, and called,

and called again. He had no reply. He half expected there would be at least

a mocking laugh from some window, or the flip of a skirt around a corner,

and if he had had even as much encouragement as that, he would have

continued the pursuit. But there was nothing flirtatious about this one.

Perhaps she had had experiences already, and knew that in such times the

only safety for a young girl was in quick and final flights. He waited

around some minutes, but nothing happened, and so he went on....

Again there had been horn-signals, but they had stopped before Ish could

get to them. He drove around in the vicinity for some minutes, and at last

saw an old man coming out of a grocery store, pushing a baby-carriage piled

high with canned goods and cartons. When Ish came closer, he saw that the

old man was perhaps not so very old. If his scraggly white beard had been

shaved away, he might have appeared a vigorous sixty. As it was, he was

unkempt and dirty, and his clothes looked as if he had been sleeping in

them.

Of the few whom he had met that day, Ish found the old man most

communicative, and yet he too stood off by himself. He took Ish to his

house near by, which he was stocking of all manner of things-some useful,

some quite useless. The mere mania of possession had taken command, and the

old man was well on the way, without restraints, toward being the typical

hermit and miser. In the former life, Ish learned, the old man had actually

been married. He had been a clerk in a hardware store. Yet probably he had

always been unhappy and lonely, restricted in his contacts with other

people. Now, apparently, he was happier than he had been before, because

there was no one to interfere with him and he could merely withdraw and

store up around himself all these material goods. He had canned food,

sometimes in neat boxes, sometimes in mere piles and heaps of cans. But he

also had a dozen crates of oranges, more than he could possibly eat before

they spoiled. He had beans in cellophane bags, and one of the bags had

broken already, spilling the beans across the floor.

In addition to food he had boxes and boxes of electric-light bulbs and

radio-tubes, a cello (though he could not play), a high pile of one issue

of the same magazine, a dozen alarm clocks, and a host of other

miscellaneous materials which he had collected, not with any definite idea

of use, but merely for the comfortable feeling of security which came to

him from surrounding himself with all kinds of possessions. The old man was

pleasant enough, but he was already, Ish reflected, essentially dead. The

shock, reacting upon his already withdrawn character, had sent him close to

insanity. He would merely go on piling up things around himself, living to

himself, withdrawing farther and farther.

Yet, when Ish started to leave, the old man seized his arm in panic.

"Why did it happen?" he asked wildly. "Why am I spared?"

Ish looked in disgust at the suddenly terror-stricken face. The mouth was

open; it seemed drooling.

"Yes," he snapped back, angry, and glad to express his anger, "yes--why were

*you* spared and so many better men taken?"

The old man glanced involuntarily about him. His fear was now abject,

inhuman.

"That's what I was afraid of!" he half-whispered.

Ish reacted into pity.

"Oh, come on!" he said. "There's nothing to be afraid of! Nobody knows why

you survived. You were never bitten by a rattlesnake, were you?"

"No--"

"Well, no matter. This business of natural immunity, I believe--nobody

understands it. But even in the worst pestilences not everybody gets sick."

But the other shook his head. "I must have been a great sinner," he said.

"Well, in that case, you should have been taken.

*"He--"* the old man paused and looked around, *"He* may be reserving me for

something special." And he shivered....

Approaching the toll-gates, Ish felt himself automatically begin to wonder

whether he had a quarter handy for toll. During a wild second he imagined

himself playing an insane scene in which he slowed the car down and held

out an imaginary coin to an imaginary hand stretched out to take it. But,

though he had to slow the car a little to go through the narrow passageway,

he did not stretch out his hand.

He had told himself that he would cross to San Francisco, and see what

things were like there. Once on the bridge, however, he realized that the

bridge itself had drawn him. It was the largest and boldest work of man in

the whole area; like all bridges, it was a symbol of unity and security.

The thought of going to San Francisco had been an excuse. He had really

wished to renew some kind of communion with the symbol of the bridge

itself.

Now it lay empty. Where six lines of cars had speeded east and west, now

the white lines on the pavement stretched off unbroken toward their meeting

at infinity. A seagull that was perched on the railing flapped lazily as

the sound of the car drew close, and slid off on a downward plane.

At a whim, he crossed to the left side and drove unobstructed along the

wrong lane. He passed through the tunnel, and the high towers and long

curves of the suspension-bridge rose before his eyes in magnificent

perspective. As usual, some painting had been in progress; to contrast with

the prevailing silver gray, one cable was splotched with orange-red.

Then suddenly he saw a strange sight. One car, a little green coupé, was

parked neatly at the railing, headed toward the East Bay.

Ish approached it, gazing curiously. He saw nobody, or nothing, inside. He

passed it; then, yielding to curiosity, he swung his car around in a wide

easy loop, and parked beside the coupé.

He opened the door and looked in. No, nothing! The driver, despairing,

feeling the sickness upon him-had he parked there, and then leaped over the

railing? Or had he, or she, merely suffered a breakdown, and flagged

another car, or walked on? Some keys were still dangling from the

dashboard; the certificate of registration was fastened to the

steering-column-John S. Robertson, of some number on Fifty-fourth Street,

Oakland. An undistinguished name and an undistinguished address! Now Mr..

Robertson's car had possession of the bridge!

Only after he was again entering the tunnel did Ish think that he might at

least have settled the question as to a breakdown by seeing whether he

could start the car. But it did not really matter-any more than it mattered

that he was heading toward the East Bay again. Having swung around to park

beside the coupé, he had merely continued on in the direction toward which

he was pointed. He had already realized that there would be no utility in

visiting San Francisco....

Soon afterward, as he had promised, Ish came again to the street where in

the morning he had talked (if it could be called talking) with the drunk

man.

He found the body lying on the sidewalk in front of the liquor store.

"After all," Ish reflected, "there is a limit to the amount of alcohol that

any human can absorb." Remembering the eyes, he could not be sorry.

No dogs were in the vicinity as yet, but Ish did not like to leave the body

merely lying there. After all, he had known and talked to Mr. Barlow. He

could not figure out just where or how he could perform a burial. So he

found some blankets in a near-by dry-goods store, and wrapped the body

carefully in these. Then he lifted Mr. Barlow into the seat of the car, and

closed the windows carefully. It would make a tight and lasting mausoleum.

He said no words, for they seemed hardly in place. But he looked through

the window at the neat roll of blankets, and thought of Mr. Barlow, who was

probably a good guy, but couldn't survive a world going to pieces around

him. And then, because in some way it seemed a decent thing to do, Ish took

off his hat, and stood uncovered a few seconds....

*In that day, as in some ancient time when a great king was overthrown and

the remnants of the conquered peoples were jubilant against him--in that day

will the fir trees rejoice and the cedars, crying out: "Since thou art laid

down, no feller is come up against us?" Will the deer and the foxes and the

quail exult: "Art thou also become weak as we, Art thou become like unto

us? Is this the man that made the earth to tremble?" *

*("Thy pomp is brought down to the grave and the noise of thy viols; the

worm is spread under thee and the worms cover thee.")*

*No--none will say such words, and none will be left to think them, and the

book of the prophet Isaiah will moulder unread. Only, the spike-buck will

graze farther from the thicket without knowing why, and the fox-cubs play

beside the dry fountain in the square, and the quad hatch her eggs in the

tall grass by the sundial. *

Toward the end of the day, swinging in a wide detour to avoid one of those

noisome regions where the dead bodies lay thickly, Ish came back to the

house on San Lupo Drive.

He had learned much. The Great Disaster--so he had begun to call it to

himself--had not been complete.

Therefore he did not need immediately to commit his future to the first

person he met. He would do better to pick and choose a little, particularly

since everyone he had so far seen was obviously suffering from shock.

A new idea was shaping in his mind and a new phrase with it--Secondary Kill.

Of those that the Great Disaster had spared, many would fall victim to some

trouble from which civilization had previously protected them. With

unlimited liquor they would drink themselves to death. There had been, he

guessed, murder; almost certainly there had been suicide. Some, like the

old man, who ordinarily would have lived normal enough lives, would be

pushed over the line into insanity by shock and the need of readjustment;

such ones would probably not survive long. Some would meet with accident;

being alone, they would die. Others would die of disease which no one was

left to treat. He knew that, biologically speaking, there was a critical

point in the numbers of any species--if the numbers were reduced below this

point, the species could not recover.

Was mankind going to survive? Well, that was one of those interesting

points which gave him the will to live. But certainly the result of his

day's research gave him little confidence. In fact, if these survivors were

typical, who would wish mankind to survive?

He had started out in the morning with a Robinson-Cmsoe feeling that he

would welcome any human companionship. He had ended with the certainty that

he would rather be alone until he found someone more congenial than the day

had offered. The sluttish woman had been the only one who had even seemed

to want his company, and there had been treachery and death in her

invitation. Even if he found a shot-gun and bushwhacked her boy-friend, she

could offer only the grossest physical companionship, and at the thought of

her he felt revulsion. As for that other girl-the young one-the only way to

make her acquaintance would be by means of a lasso or a bear-trap. And like

the old man she would probably turn out to be crazy.

No, the Great Disaster had shown no predilection toward sparing the nice

people, and the survivors had not been rendered pleasanter as the result of

the ordeal through which they had passed.

He prepared some supper, and ate, but without appetite. Afterwards he tried

to read, but the words had as little savor as the food. He still thought of

Mr. Barlow and the others; in one way or another, each in his own manner,

everyone whom he 38 George R Stewart

had seen that day was going to pieces. He did not think that he himself

was. But was he actually still sane? Was he too, perhaps, suffering from

shock? In calm self-consciousness h( thought about it. After a while he

took pencil and paper, deciding to write down what qualifications he had,

why he might be going to live, even with some degree of happiness, while

the others were not.

First of all, without hesitation, he scribbled:

1) Have will to live. Want to see what will happen in world without man,

and how. Geographer.

Beneath this he wrote other notes.

2) Always was solitary. Don't have to talk to other people.

3) Have appendix out.

4) Moderately practical, though not mechanical. Camper.

5) Did not suffer devastating experience of living through it all, seeing

family, other people, die. Thus escaped worst of shock.

He paused, looking at his last note. At least he could hope that it was

true.

Still he sat staring, and thinking. He could list others of his qualities,

such as his being intellectually oriented, and therefore, he supposed,

adaptable to new circumstances. He could list that he was a reader and so

had still available an important means of relaxation and escape. 'At the

same time he was more than a mere reader in that he knew also the means of

research through books, and thus possessed a powerful tool for

reconstruction.

His fingers tightened about the pencil for a moment while he considered

writing down that he was not superstitious. This might be important.

Otherwise he would even now, like the old man, be fighting the fear that

the whole disaster had been the work of an angry God, who had now wiped out

his people by pestilence as once before by flood, leaving Ish (though as

yet unsupplied with wife and children) like another Noah to repopulate the

emptiness. But such thoughts opened up the way to madness. Yes, he

realized, if a man began to think of himself as divinely appointed, he was

close to thinking of himself as God--and at that point lay insanity.

"No," he thought. "What happens, at least I shall never believe that I am a

god. No, I shall never be a god!"

Then, his flight of ideas still continuing, he realized that in some ways,

very curiously, he felt a new security and even satisfaction at the

contemplation of a solitary life.. His worries in the old days had been

chiefly about people. The prospect of going to a dance had more than once

sent him into a sweat; he had never been a good mixer; no one had asked him

to join a fraternity. In the old days, such things were a handicap to a

man. Now, he realized, they were actually a great advantage. Because he had

sat on the edge of so many social gatherings, not quite. able to mingle in

the conversation, listening, watching objectively, now he could endure not

being able to talk, and again could sit and watch, noting what happened.

His weakness had become strength. It was as if there had been a blind man

in a world suddenly bereft of light. In that world, those with seeing eyes

could only blunder about, but the blind man would be at home, and now

instead of being the one who was guided by others, he might be the one to

whom the others clung for guidance.

Nevertheless the lonely life stretching out before him did not seem so

simple-and seemed far from secure or pleasant, as he again lay on his bed

and through the darkness the cold fingers of the fog reached in from the

Bay and folded within them the house on San Lupo Drive. Then again that

great fear came upon him, and he cringed in vague dread and listened for

noises in the darkness, and thought of his loneliness and of all that might

happen to him, too, in the course of that Secondary Kill. A wild desire for

flight and escape came upon him. He had a feeling that he must go far away

and move fast, and keep ahead of anything that might be pursuing him. Then

he rationalized this thought with the feeling that the disease could not

have fallen everywhere upon the United States, that somewhere must be left

some community, which he should find.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 3*

In the morning his panic had faded but the deep-seated fear was still with

him. He got out of bed carefully, and swallowed apprehensively in terror

that he might have a sore throat. He handled himself with all the care of

an aged hypochondriac. When he walked downstan-s he balanced himself

meticulously, realizing that even a sprained ankle might mean death.

He immediately began preparations for flight, and as always when he began

acting upon some definite plan, even though the plan in itself made little

sense, he felt a quietness and satisfaction. His own car was old. He

therefore began to look around for a better one among the many hundreds

that were parked along the streets. Most of these were without keys, but

finally in a garage he found a station-wagon which suited his fancy and

which contained a key. He pressed the starter, and the engine responded

perfectly. He idled it for a minute, raced it, and decided that it was

good. He started to engage the gears, and then suddenly paused with a

feeling of uneasiness. He did not regret leaving his own car, but still

something worried him. In a moment he remembered. He went back to his old

car, and took out the hammer. He carried it over to the station-wagon and

laid it at his feet. Then he drove out of the garage.

From a grocery he stocked himself, nibbling some crackers and cheese for

lunch as he walked about selecting his cans. He realized he might pick up

supplies at any town. Still, it would be convenient to have a reserve with

him in the car. From other stores he took a sleeping-bag, an ax and a

shovel, a rain-coat, cigarettes, enough food to see him through several

days, a small bottle of good brandy. Remembering his experiences of the day

before, he went into a sporting-goods shop, and selected a variety of

weapons--a light shot-gun, a medium-calibre repeating rifle, a small

automatic pistol that would go handily into a side-pocket, a hunting-knife.

Just when he had finished loading the station-wagon, and was about ready to

start, he looked around and first became conscious of a dog. He had seen

many dogs in the last two days, and he had tried to shut them out of his

mind. 71ey were pathetic, and he did not like to think what was happening.

Some of them looked starved; some of them looked too well fed. Some seemed

uncertain and cringing; others snarled and were all too well assured of

themselves. This particular dog was like a small hound, with long drooping

ears, of a white-and-liver color-a beagle, probably, although he did not

know much about breeds of dogs. It stood at a safe distance of ten feet,

looked at him, wagged its tail, and whimpered just audibly.

"Go away!" he said, roughly, for his heart was suddenly bitter within him,

and he felt himself building a wall against more attachments which must

only end with death. "Go away!" he repeated. Instead, the dog took a step

or two closer to him, and put its forequarters down on the ground and laid

its head on its forefeet and looked up at him with strangely appealing

eyes, which rolled upward. Long drooping ears gave the face an expression

of infinite sadness. Obviously, the dog was saying, "You have broken my

heart!" Suddenly, without thinking, he smiled and he remembered then, it

was perhaps the first time he had smiled, except ironically, since the

snake had struck.

He came to himself instantly, and realized that the dog was rubbing against

his leg, quick to sense the change of his mood. As he looked down, it

scurried away suddenly in fright, or pretended fright, then dashed around

in a little circle variegated with two quick dodges, and ended again with

its forelegs on the ground and its head between them, giving out an eager

little bark which changed into a hound-like howl. Again Ish broke into a

smile which this time was really a broad grin, and the dog sensed his mood.

It dashed around him again in a swift run, with sudden changes of

direction, giving an imitation of what it would do if chasing a rabbit. It

ended this little demonstration of varied abilities by running boldly up to

Ish's legs again, rubbing against them, and putting its head there as if to

be patted, as much as saying, "Wasn't that a good act I put on?" Realizing

what was expected of him, Ish dropped his hand on the dog's head, and

patted the sleek forehead. The dog gave a little whimper of satisfaction.

The tail- wagged so vigorously that the whole body seemed to be wagging

from the ears back. The light-colored eyes rolled upwards until the whites

showed along the bottom. It was the picture of adoration. The long ears

fell on each side, and little wrinkles showed on the forehead. The dog was

certainly making a good case of love at first sight. Its actions said,

"This is the only man in the world for me!"

Ish relaxed suddenly. Squatting down, he patted the dog unashamedly.

"Well," he thought, "I've got myself a dog--whether I want one or not." And

then he reconsidered, "I mean, the dog has got me."

He opened the door of the station-wagon; the dog jumped in and lay down, at

home on the front seat.

Going into a grocery, Ish found a box of dog-biscuits; he fed the dog one

from his hand. The animal took the food without any particular sign of

affection or thanks. This was obviously what a man was for. Once you had

got yourself a man, there was no need to be particularly grateful to him.

Noticing for the first time, Ish saw that it was not a dog, strictly

speaking, but a bitch. "Well," he said, "a case of pure seduction,

apparently."

He went back to the house, and picked up a few of his personal

belongings-some clothes, his field-glasses, a few books. He reflected a

moment whether there was anything else needed for a trip which might take

him clear across the continent. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

He took out his wallet, and discovered that he had nineteen dollars in

fives and ones. He certainly did not need any more money. He even

considered throwing the whole wallet away, but finally kept it. He was so

used to having it in his hip-pocket that he felt uncomfortable without it.

The money would probably do him no harm.

Without any real hope, he composed a note, and left it posted conspicuously

on the living-room desk. If they should return while he was away, they

would know that they should wait for his return or leave a note of their

own for him.

As he stood by the car, he gave another look up and down San Lupo Drive.

There was no one in sight, of course. The houses and trees all looked the

same as before, but he noticed again that the lawns and gardens already

showed the lack of care, particularly of watering. In spite of the fogs,

the long drought of the California summer was already settling down.

By now it was mid-afternoon. Nevertheless, he decided to start at once. He

was anxious to be off, and he could spend the night at some near-by town.

*As with the dogs and cats, so also with the grasses and flowers which man

had long nourished. The clover and the blue-grass withered on the lawns,

and the dandelions grew tall. In the flowerbed the water-loving asters

wilted and drooped, and the weeds flourished. Deep within the camellias,

the sap failed; they would bear no buds next spring. The leaves curled on

the tips of the wisteria vines and the rose bushes, as they set themselves

against the long drought. Foot by foot the wild cucumbers quickly sent

their long vines across lawn andflowerbed and terrace. As once, when the

armies of the empire were shattered and the strong barbarians poured in

upon the soft provincials, so now the fierce weeds pressed in to destroy

thepampered nurslings of man. *

The staunch motor hummed steadily. He drove, the moming of this second day,

with exaggerated caution, thinking of blow-outs and ofsteering-gear or

brakes which might suddenly cease to function, and of cattle wandering on

the highway. He tried to keep the speedometer needle at forty.

But that motor had never been designed to keep a car at such a speed, and

he constantly found that he had slid up to fifty or sixty without realizing

it.

Yet, even to be moving at all kept him from feeling quite so depressed.

Mere change of place was a comfort; flight itself, a solace. Deep within,

he knew that all this was because he was temporarily escaping from the

necessity of depision. As long as he was merely pulling down the curtain of

one landscape behind him and raising that of another in front of him, as

long as he was merely driving, he did not need to make plans for the

future, to decide how he should live, or even whether he should live. The

necessity now was only to decide how he should steer around the next

approaching curve.

The beagle-bitch lay beside him. Now and then she put her head in his lap,

but mostly she slept quietly, and her being so close was also a comfort. In

the rear-view miffor he never saw a car behind him, but he looked in it

occasionally, out of habit. In it he saw the rifle and shot-gun on the

middle seat behind him, and the back seat piled high with his sleeping-bag

and the cartons of food. He was like a sailor in his own boat stocked and

ready for emergencies, and he also felt the deep desperation of the

solitary survivor of a ship-wreck, alone in all the vastness.

He followed Highway 99 south through the San Joaquin Valley. Although he

drove slowly, he made excellent mileage. He did not have to slow down

behind a truck, or to stop for traffic-lights (though most of them were

still functioning), or to reduce speed for towns. In fact, in spite of his

apprehensions, he had to admit that driving Highway 99 under these

conditions was much safer than driving it through thick and madly speeding

traffic.

He saw no man. If he had searched through the towns, he might have found

someone, but there was no use of it now. A straggler here or there he might

pick up at any time. Now he was searching to see whether some greater

remnant might be left somewhere.

The broad plain stretched away-vineyards, orchards, fields of melons,

fields of cotton. Perhaps a fanner's eye could have seen that already

everything showed neglect, and the absence of the hand of man, but to Ish

it all still looked about the same.

At Bakersfield he left 99, and turned toward the winding road over

Tehachapi Pass. Fields gave way to scattered slopes Of oaks, and higher

still came open park-like stands of thinfoliaged Coulter pine. Here, too,

there was no one. Yet he did not so much feel the absence of people, for

this had always been empty country. He came down the side of the pass on

the other end, and looked out over the far reaches where the desert began.

More sharply than ever he became apprehensive. Although the sun was still

well above the horizon, he stopped at the little town of Mojave, and began

to make his preparations.

To cross those two hundred miles of desert, men had carried water in their

cars even in the Old Times. There were stretches where one might have to

walk for a full day to reach even a roadside stand if the car went bad. He

could take no chances now, when no one would be coming to help him.

He found a hardware store. The door was massive and strongly locked; so he

smashed a window with the hammer and went in. He took three large canteens,

and filled them at a faucet from which water was still running, though

feebly. He added a gallon jug of red wine from a grocery store. Still he

was not satisfied, and the thought of the desert weighed heavily on him. He

drove back along the main street, not just sure what he was seeking, and

then his, eyes fell on a motorcycle. It was black and white, one of those

used by the Highway Patrol. Through all his depression and fear he still

felt qualms at stealing a motorcycle belonging to a traffic cop. It was the

height of the incredible.

Yet after a minute he got out, fiddled with the motorcycle, found it

workable, and rode slowly down the street and back.

After an hour's work in the heavy heat of the late afternoon, using some

planks to build a ramp, he managed to wheel the motorcycle up, and to lash

it securely on the lowered tail-gate of the station-wagon. Now he was not

only like a sailor in his own boat, but he had a tender in which he could

take refuge if the boat itself should sink. Even so, he felt more

apprehensive than ever, and found himself now and then glancing over his

shoulder.

The sun set, and he was fired. He made himself a cold and unsatisfactory

meal, and ate it dispiritedly, still feeling the fear. He even considered

what he would do if the food gave him indigestion. When he had finished

eating, he found a can of dog-food in a grocery store, and fed it to the

beagle. She accepted the offering as only her due. Having eaten, she curled

up in the front seat. He drove the station-wagon to the best-looking

tourist-court in town, found the door of a room unopened, and went in, the

beagle following. Only a dribble flowed from the faucets. Apparently the

water supplies of this small town were not as automatically adjusted as

were those of the city. He washed as well as he could; then went to bed.

The dog curled up on the floor.

The fear gripped him hard, and he could not sleep. The dog whimpered in a

drearn, and he started violently. The fear moved in more tightly. He got

out of bed, and tried the door to be sure that he had locked it, although

he did not know who or what he should be fearing, or against whom or what

he should lock a door. He thought of going to find a drug store and getting

some pills to make him sleep, but even that idea frightened him. He thought

of trying the brandy, but that too had sinister implications as he

remembered Mr. Barlow. At last he slept, but restlessly. In the morning his

head was heavy, and in the crisp heat of the desert forenoon he still

flinched at starting across the waste. He considered turning back; he

considered going soud toward Los Angeles, telling himself that it would be

a good idea to see what had happened there. But all these ideas, lu knew,

were excuses, mere flinchings from the carrying-out ol his original plan,

and he still had enough pride in himself to keep from needlessly turning

back or swerving from the course which he had laid out. But he temporized

at least to this extent, that he would not start across the desert until

nearly sunset. That, he argued, was merely an ordinary precaution. Even in

ordinary times many people drove the desert at night just to escape from

the heat.

He spent the day restlessly in Mojave-oppressed by the fear, and trying to

think of more things which he should do for safety. When the sun was about

to touch the western hills, he started, the dog beside him on the seat.

He had scarcely gone a mile before he felt the desert closing in around

him. The low sun cast the Joshua trees into strange long shadows. Then the

shadows were gone, and soon twilight fell. He turned on his lights, and the

high beams illuminated the road before him-empty, always empty. In the

rear-view mirror he never saw the far-off twin lights which would mean that

some car was overtaking him.

Then it was full darkness, and his anxiety grew deeper and deeper. He

thought of all that might go wrong, even though the engine purred steadily

along. He drove slowly and still more slowly, thinking of blow-outs,

thinking of an overheating engine, or of oil that might fail to flow and

leave him marooned, far alone. He even lost confidence in the motorcycle

which he carried as insurance. After a long time-he was driving slowly-he

passed one of the little desert stations where one might at least expect to

get gasoline or a spare tire or something to drink. Now it was dark, and he

knew that there was no help. He went on beyond that, the white beams

cutting out the road clearly ahead of him; the engine still puffed

smoothly, but he wondered what he would do if it should stop.

He had gone a long way. At last the dog on the seat beside him began to

whimper and stir restlessly. "Shut up!" he said sharply, but still she

whimpered and stirred. "Oh, all right!" he said, and pulled the car to a

stop, not bothering to turn aside off the pavement. He got out, and then

held the door open for the dog. She ran about for a moment, whimpering, and

then without stopping to relieve herself, she suddenly lifted her nose, let

out a bay tremendous for such a small creature, and struck out at full

speed into the desert. "Come! *Come back!*" he shouted, but the dog paid no

attention, and her bay went off into the distance.

There was a sudden deep silence as she ceased giving tongue, and in the

silence he suddenly started, realizing that another noise, too, had

stopped. The idling engine had stalled. in quick panic he leaped back into

the car and pressed the, starter-button. The engine resumed its steady

purring. Yet, he was shaken. Feeling suddenly conspicuous, as if things

might see him and he could not see them, he turned out the lights and sat

in the darkness. "What a mess!" he said to himself.

Faintly, far off now, he heard again the baying of the beagle. The note

rose and fell as she circled somewhere behind the quarry. He considered

going on, and abandoning her. After all, he had not wished to take her

along in the first place. If now she chose to abandon him in the desert and

go off after the first chance rabbit, what debt had he toward her? He

slipped the car into gear, and drove ahead. But he stopped after only a few

yards. It seemed too mean a desertion. The dog would probably find no water

in the desert, and that would be a horrible end. In some way he had aheady

incurred obligations to the beagle, even though she seemed to be using him

for her own ends. He shivered in his loneliness and depression.

After a while, a quarter of an hour perhaps, he was suddenly aware that the

beagle had returned. He had not heard her; she had merely appeared. She lay

down panting, her tongue hanging out. He felt sudden uncontrollable anger

against her. He thought wildly of all those vague dangers to which her

foolishness seemed to expose him. If he could not leave her to die of

thirst in the desert, at least he could put her to a quick end. He got out

of the car carrying the shot-gun.

Then, as he looked down, he saw the dog lying with its head between its

forepaws, panting still from the run. She did not bother to move, but he

could vaguely see her large eyes lifted up toward him with the touch of

whites along the bottom. Having had her fun chasing the rabbit, she had now

come back to her man, the one she had adopted and who had proved extremely

useful to supply tasty food out of cans and to transport her to a lovely

country which supplied real rabbits for chasing. Suddenly Ish relaxed, and

laughed.

With the laughter, something broke inside of him, and was as if a load had

rolled away. "After all," he thought, "what am I afraid of? Nothing more

than my death can happen. That has come to most people already. Why should

I be afraid of that? It can be nothing worse than that."

He felt infinite relief. He strode half a dozen steps do the road,

springily, giving his body a chance to express what his mind felt.

And surely this was more than the dropping off of any momentary burden.

This was a kind of great Declaration of Independence. He had boldly stepped

up to Fate, and slapped Fate in the face, and dared Fate to do the worst.

Thereupon he resolved that if he was to live at all he would live without

fear. After all, he had escaped a nearly universal disaster.

With a quick decision he hurried to the rear of the car, undid the lashing,

and dumped the motorcycle. No longer would he take all these overcautious

precautions. There might not be any Fate which objected to people playing

the game too safely. But, even if there were not, such playing was too much

trouble. He would take his chances from now on, and at least enjoy fife

without fear, as long as he lived it. Was he not living, as they said, on

borrowed time?

"Well, come on, Princess," he said ironically, "let's get going." And as he

said it, he realized that he had at last named the dog. That was a good

name; its very triteness seemed to connect him with the old days, and at

least she was The Princess, always expecting him to take care of her with

the best of service, repaying him only incidentally, in so far as she took

him away from thoughts of himself.

Yet, reconsidering, he did not go any farther that night. With his

new-found sense of freedom he rather enjoyed merely taking additional

chances. He pulled the sleeping-bag out. Unrolling it, he lay on the sand

under the slight shelter of a mesquite bush. Princess lay beside him, and

went soundly to sleep, tired from her run. Once he awoke in the night, and

lay calm at last. He had passed through so much, and now he seemed to know

a calm which would never pass. Once Princess whimpered in her sleep, and he

saw her legs twitch as if she were still chasing the rabbit. Then she lay

quiet; he, too, slept away.

When he awoke, finally, the dawn was lemon yellow above the desert hills.

He was cold, and he found Princess close up against his sleeping-bag. He

crawled out just as the sun was rising.

*This is the desert, the wilderness. It began a long time ago. After a

while, men came. They camped at the springs and left chips of stone

scattered about in the sand there, and worefaint trails through the lines

of the mesquite bushes, but you could hardly tell that they had been there.

Still later, they laid down railroads, and strung up wires, and made long

straight roads. Still, in comparison with the whole desert, you could

hardly tell that men had been there, and ten yards asidefrom the steel

rails or the concrete pavement, it was all the same. After a while, the men

went away, leaving their works behind them.*

*There is plenty of time in the desert. A thousand years are as a day. The

sand drifts, and in the high winds even the gravel moves, but it is all

very slow. Now and then, once in a century, it may be, there comes a

cloudburst, and the long-dry streambeds roar with water, rolling boulders.

Given ten centuries perhaps, the fissures of the earth will open again and

the black lava pourforth.*

*But as the desert was slow to yield before man, so it will be slow to wipe

out his traces. Come back in a thousand years, and you will still see the

chips of stone scattered through the sand and the long road stretching off

to the gap in the kmfelike hills on the horizon. There will be little rust,

and even the iron rails may be there. As for the copper wires, they are

next to immortal. This is the desert, the wilderness--slow to give, and slow

to take away. *

For a while the speedometer needle stood at 80, and he drove with the wild

joy of freedom, fearless at the thought of a tire blowing out. Later, he

slowed down a little, and began to look around with new interest, his

trained geographer's mind focusing upon that drama of man's passing. In

this country, he saw little difference.

When he came to Needles, the gasoline-gauge stood nearly at empty. Electric

power had failed, and the gas-pumps would not work. With a little search he

found a gasoline depot at the edge of town, and filled his tank from one of

the drums. He went on.

Crossing the Colorado River, he entered Arizona, and the road began to rise

up among sharp, rocky crags. Here, at last he saw cattle. Half a dozen

steers and two cows with their calves stood in a draw near the road. They

raised their heads, idly, when he stopped the car to look them over. These

desert' cattle, unless when grazing near the road, scarcely saw a man from

one month's end to the other. Twice a year, the cowboys came out to round

them up. The passing of man would make no difference here, except that

actually the herds would breed more rapidly. After a time, perhaps, they

might have troubles with overgrazed range, but before then the long-drawn

howl of the *lobo* wolves would re-echo again through these ravines, and

there would be a new means of control-of numbers. In the end, however, he

had no doubt that the cattle and the wolves would strike off some

unconscious balance and that the cattle, bereft of man, would continue to

thrive.

Farther on, near the old mining-town of Oatman, he saw two burros. Whether

they had merely been wandering about the vicinity of the town at the time

of the catastrophe, or whether they had been some that had gone wild,

already, he did not know, but they seemed well contented. He got out of the

car, and tried approaching them, but they scampered away, keeping their

distance. Returning to the car he loosed the yapping Princess' , and she

made a wild dash at the two strange animals. The jack laid down his ears,

and charged upon her with lips drawn back from teeth and lashing forefeet.

Princess turned sharply and scuttled to the car and the protection of her

man. The jack, thought Ish, would be more than a match for any wolf, and

even a mountain-lion might well regret pressing an attack.

He passed the summit above Oatman, and well down the other side he came for

the first time to a partial block in the road. At some time during the last

few days a fierce desert thunderstorm must have swept across this edge of

the moun_ tains. When the water came tearing down the wash, the culvert had

plugged and water had streamed across the road, carrying sand. He got out

to investigate. In ordinary times, a road-crew would soon have been along.

They would have cleared the sand from the road and opened the culvert

again, and everything would have been as before. But now, the culvert

remained plugged, and the few inches of sand remained on the road, and when

he looked at the lower side of the pavement he saw that the washing water

had already cut out half a foot of dirt from under the lower side of the

concrete. Now, at the next storm, still more sand would wash across, and

still more dirt would be cut away from the underside. In a few years the

concrete might begin to crack away from where it was undercut, and the sand

and gravel would pile up still higher on the road itself. Now, however,

there was no serious question of passability. He drove the car over the

sand.

"A road is as strong as its weakest link,", he thought, wondering how long

it would be possible to travel as he was traveling now. That night he slept

again in a bed, helping himself to a place in the best tourist-court in

Kingman.

*The cattle, the horses, the asses-through thousands of centuries they

lived their own lives, and went their own ways in forest and steppe and

desert. Then man grew strong, and for a while he used the cattle, and the

horses, and the asses, for other ends. But after that was finished, they

went their own ways again.*

*Fastened with their stanchions in the long barns, the dairy cattle bawled

thirstily for a while and then lay still. Penned in their paddocks, the

long-limbed thoroughbreds died slowly.*

*But on the ranges, the white-faced Herefords looked out for themselves,

and even on the farms, the cattle broke through the fences and wandered

fireely. So too, on the ranges, with the horses and the asses....*

*The asses seek the desert, as in the ancient days. They sniff the dry east

wind, and gallop on the dusty lake beds, and step daintily on the

boulder-strewn hills; with their hard mouths they- eat the thorny bushes.

Their companions are the big-horn sheep.*

*The horses take the dry open plains. They eat the green grass of spring,

and the grass-seed of summer, and the dry grass of autumn, and in the

winter, shaggy-coated, they paw the snow, for the dry grass beneath it.

With them the herds of the pronghorn pasture.*

*The cattle seek the greener lands and the forests. In the copses the cows

hide the new-born calves until they canfollow the mothers. The bison are

their companions, and their rivals. The great bulls battle mightily, and in

the end, perhaps, the heavier bulls will prevail, and the bison move out

over all their old domain. Then the cattle may be pushed deeper intothe

woodland and there find their haven. *

Electric power had failed at Kingman, but the water was still running. The

stove in the kitchenette at the tourist-court was supplied from a tank of

liquefied gas, and the pressure was at normal. Since there was no electric

refrigeration, he could have neither eggs, nor butter, nor milk. But he

took his time, and after a raid on a store prepared an excellent break-,

fast-canned grapefruit, canned sausages, flapjacks, syrup. He made a large

pot of coffee, and had it with sugar and canned milk. Princess enjoyed her

usual can of horsemeat. After breakfast, to get gasoline, he took the

hammer and a cold chisel, and plugged a hole in the tank of a truck.

Setting a five-gallon can beneath the spurt of gasoline, he filled it, and

then transferred the gasoline to his own tank.

There were dead bodies in the town, but in the dry Arizona heat they had

mummified instead of decaying, and though they were not pretty to look at,

they made no assault upon the nostrils.

Beyond Kingman he soon came to where the compact little pifion pines stood

evenly spaced across dry rolling country. Except for the highway, man had

left little mark anywhere. No telephone line followed the road, and often

there were no fences-just the rangeland stretching off on both sides, green

because of the summer rains, dotted with the little trees. Actually, he

knew that overgrazing had changed the grass and shrubs over all this

country, and that with man gone there would now be more changes. Perhaps,

with the slaughter-houses no longer at work, the cattle would become more

numerous than ever; before their predators could increase sufficiently to

control their numbers, they might eat the grass to the roots and start

gullies and change the whole face of the country. No, just as likely, he

reconsidered, hoof-and-mouth disease would work in across the now open

Mexican border, and cattle might almost disappear. Or perhaps he

underestimated the rapidity at which wolves and mountain-lions would

multiply. All he held fairly certain was that in twenty-five or fifty years

some kind of moderately stable situation would result and that the land

then would steadily get to look more and more like what it had been before

the white men came.

On the first two days, he had felt the fear; on the third, he had speeded

wildly in reaction. But today, again in reaction, he felt a great calm and

restfulness. The quiet of everything impressed him. In spite of having

spent so much time in the mountains, he had just taken it for granted that

mountains were quiet, and had not realized how much of the noise in the

world was man-caused. There had been many definitions of Man; he would make

another: "The noise-producing animal." Now there was only the nearly

imperceptible murmur of his own engine. He had no need to blow the horn.

There were no back-firing trucks, no snorting trains, no pounding planes

overhead. In the little town no whistles blew or bells rang or radios

blared or people talked. Even if it was the peace of death, still that was

a kind of peace.

He drove slowly, though not from fear. When he wished, he stopped to look

at something. At every halt he made it a game to discover what he could

hear. Often, after he had turned off the engine, he heard nothing at all,

even in a town. Sometimes there was the chirp of a bird or the faint

humming of an insect; sometimes the wind made a little rustling. Once he

heard with a sense of relief the muffled pounding of a far-off

thunderstorm.

By that time it was afternoon, and he had come into a higher country of

tall pines with a snow-capped peak looming up to the north. At Williams a

shiny strean-dined train stood in the stationyard, just as the engineer had

left it; he saw no one. At Flagstaff, much of the town had been burned; he

saw no one.

Just beyond Flagstaff he came around a bend of the road and some distance

ahead saw two crows leave something in the road and flap heavily away. He

feared a little to come up and see what they had been eating, but it was

only a sheep. The body lay fight upon the concrete of the highway, a red

smear of blood showing from the torn throat. When he looked around, he saw

that there were other bodies of sheep lying close to the road, and on both

sides he could see still more. He walked a little way off the road, and

counted twenty-six.

Dogs or coyotes? He could not tell, but he could easily reconstruct the

scene-the harried sheep driven across the meadow, those on the outside

pulled down or separated from those who clung closely toward the center of

the flock.

Soon afterwards, out of whim, he turned in at the little Toad which led

toward Walnut Canyon National Monument. He came to the neatly built

Superintendent's house which looked down into the deep canyon with its

ruined houses of the Cliff Dwellers. There was an hour's daylight left, and

he found a grim amusement in walking around the narrow path, looking at

what was left of those houses of that old people. He came back, and slept

the night in the house at the lip of the canyon. Already there had been a

summer thunderstorm, and a little water had run under the door. Since no

one had cleaned it up, it had lain in a pool there and damaged the floor.

Other rains would come; year by year, their effect would increase until

after a while the neat house at the lip of the canyon would fall into

ruins, and be not much different from those old houses sheltering along the

cliffs. Here the ruin of one civilization would pile up on the ruin of

another.

*For a while the flocks, too, will remain. Even though the killers kill

merely in the rage of the blood-lust, nevertheless millions of sheep are

not to be wiped out in a day, or in a month, and thousands of new-born

lambs will be dropped. What are fifty or one hundred slain out of millions?

Yet not without reason, as symbol of a perishing people, men have said

"sheep without a shepherd." In the end they will vanish....*

*They wander helplessly in the blizzards of the winter, and in the summer

they stray far from water and are too stupid to find their way back; they

are caught in the springfloods, and the bodies wash down by the hundreds;

they stampede stupidly over cliffs, and lie in corrupting masses in the

depths of the ravines; and always there are more of the killers--the dogs

run wild, the wolves and coyotes, the mountain-lions, the bears. After a

while, the great flocks are broken into a few frightened scurrying

fragments; in the end, there will be no more sheep.*

*Thousands of years ago they accepted the protection of the shepherd and

lost their agility and sense of independence. Now, when the shepherd has

gone, they too must go.*

On the next day he was crossing the wide high plains of the continental

divide. This was rich sheep country, and again he saw more bodies where

coyotes had harried the flocks. Once, on a far-off hillside, he saw what

seemed to be scattered sheep running wildly, but he could not be sure.

Again, however, he saw an even stranger sight; in the rich meadow along a

stream, he saw a flock of sheep grazing peacefully. He looked around, half

expecting to see the wagon and the sheepherder himself-, but instead, he

saw only two dogs. The shepherd was gone, but by long habit the dogs were

continuing their task, keeping the sheep together, maintaining them in the

good pasture along the water of the stream, doubtless fighting off the

marauders that came sniffing in the night. He stopped the car and watched,

keeping Princess beside him on the seat, so that she would not disturb the

situation. The two sheep-dogs grew excited when they noticed the car; they

barked excitedly, and rounded up a few stragglers. They kept their

distance, a quarter-mile away, and seemed hostile. Just as in the cities

the electric power was still pulsating through the wires after man had

passed, so here upon the far stretches of the grass lands, the dogs watched

the sheep for a little while. But, he thought, it could not be for long.

The road led on across the wide spaces; U.S. 66 read the signs beside the

pavement. It had been a great highway, he remembered, in the old days, the

road of the Okies to California; there had been a popular song about it;

now, it lay empty. No bus roared by with *Los Angeles* imprinted on its

front; no truck came from east or west, no jalopy piled high with the

household goods of some migrating fruitpicker, no sleek car of tourists

going to the Indian dances, not even a Navaho wagon with a bony horse

pulling it by the side of the pavement.

He dropped into the valley of the Rio Grande, crossed the bridge, and went

up the long street of Albuquerque. This was the largest town he had seen

since leaving California; he honked his horn as he went, and waited for a

response. He heard nothing, and he did not wait long.

He slept that night at a tourist-court on the eastern edge of Albuquerque,

from which he could look back down the long slope toward the town. It was

all in darkness; here the power had failed already.

In the morning he went on through the mountains, and came out on the other

side into a country of scattered buttes with broad plains between. A frenzy

of speed came upon him again, and he drove the car at its limit on the

straight roads. The buttes fell away behind; he crossed the state line, and

was in Texas, in the flat country of the Panhandle. The day was suddenly

blazing hot, and around him lay endless stubble fields from which the wheat

had already been cut before the death fell upon the harvesters. That night

he slept on the outskirts of Oklahoma City.

In the morning he skirted the city by a by-pass, and went on. He followed

66 toward Chicago, but after a few miles a tree across the road blocked

him. He got out to consider the situation. There had obviously been one of

those sudden wind storms which sweep the plains country. A tall poplar

standing before a farm house had tipped and gone over, hiding the whole

highway in a clutter of leaves and branches. It would be a labor of a half

a day to chop any kind of passage through the tangle. Then suddenly he

realized that here was a significant scene in that great drama which he had

set himself to watch. Highway 66, that famous road! Here it was, blocked by

the chance falling of a tree! A man might cut his way through this

Obstruction, but there were, or would soon be, others. In the

thunderstorms, mud would wash across the road and earth Slide from the

cuts; a bridge would go in the surnmer freshet; in a few years, to take a

car from Chicago to Los Angeles on Highway 66 would be a task for a pioneer

in a covered wagon.

He thought of detouring through the fields, but the sod was soft and mucky

from recent rains. Consulting his road-map, he saw that he could go south

ten miles and strike another paved road, which would bring him back to the

highway. He turned the station-wagon around, and started back.

But when he reached the other road, he saw no real reason why he should

return to 66. The secondary highway led on directly toward the east, and so

far as he could tell, that direction was just as good as another.

"Perhaps," he thought, "that fallen tree has changed the whole future

course of human history. I might have gone on toward Chicago, and something

might have happened there. Now something different will happen."

So he went eastward through Oklahoma, the country empty everywhere. On the

rolling hills the scrubby oak-growth looked just as it must have looked

before. On the level cultivated stretches, corn and cotton were growing.

The corn stood high, head above the weeds; it would bear a fairly good

crop. But the cotton was rapidly being choked out.

The full heat of surnmer was upon him now, and was breaking down more of

his remnants of civilization. He still 'shaved daily, more because he felt

comfortable that way than for any sense of his appearance, but he had not

had his hair cut, and it hung shaggily about him. He hacked at it with a

pair of scissors. He had reverted merely to a pair of blue jeans and an

open-necked shirt. He threw the shirt away every morning, and put on a

clean one. Somewhere he had forgotten his gray fedora, and from an Oklahoma

general store he picked up a cheap straw hat, the kind that any tenant

farmer might wear in the summer.

That afternoon he crossed into Arkansas, and though he knew that state

lines were only imaginary, he suddenly be came conscious of another change.

Here all the dryness of the plains country was left far behind, and the

weather was hot and humid. As a result the growth was everywhere pushing in

upon the roads and buildings. Runners from vines and climb mg roses already

dangled across windows and hung swinging from eaves and porch roofs. The

smaller houses looked as if they were shrinking back shyly and beginning to

hide in the woods. Fences also were being obscured. There was no longer a

sharp line between the road and the surrounding country. Grass and weeds

were showing green at every little crack in the concrete; blackberry shoots

were pushing in from the shoulders, breaking the clean white line. In one

place the long runners of some vme reached clear to the. white line in the

nuddle of the pavement, and met others advancing from the other side.

Peaches were ripe, and he varied his diet of canned food by raiding an

orchard. His entry scared off a few hogs which had been eating the fallen

fruit. That night he slept at North Little Rock.

*The prize boars will die in their well-kept pens, and the fat brood sows

will wander about, squealing for their mash, but on many a farm, the shoats

will run wild without restraint of fences. They need nothing from man. In

the heat they seek the swamps by the river, and root there, and lie in the

mud, grunting happily. When the air grows cool, they wander the oak woods

and feed on the acorns. After a few generations, they grow slimmer of leg

and thinner of body and longer of tusk. Before the fury of their boars,

even the wolf and the bear hurry aside. Like man, they eat flesh or fowl or

tuber or nut or fruit. They will live.*

An hour on the road next morning, at the edge of a small town, he started,

as his eyes fell upon the unaccustomed sight of a well-weeded and tended

garden. He stopped, went to investigate, and found fbr the first time what

might, by generous interpretation, be called a social group. They were

Negroes-a man, a middle-aged woman, a young boy. By the obvious look of the

woman, there would soon be a fourth member. They were tinud. The boy kept

in the background, curious but frightened, scratching at his head in a way

that suggested lice. The woman stood, stolidly silent except to direct

question. The man took off his straw hat and stood fingering its broken rim

nervously; beads of sweat, from nervousness or the heat of the morning sun,

ran down his shiny black forehead.

Ish could hardly understand the thick dialect, rendered more unintelligible

by embarrassment. He made out, however, that they knew of no one else in

the neighborhood, and in fact knew very little of anything, not having been

beyond walking distance from the spot since the disaster. They were not a

family group, but merely a chance association of survivors-three, against

the law of chance, having survived in one small town.

Ish soon realized they were suffering not only from the shock of the

catastrophe but also from the taboos carried over from before it. They

talked with diffidence in the presence of a strange white man, dropping

their eyes.

In spite of their obvious reluctance, Ish looked around their Place.

Although all the houses of the town must have been open to them, they still

lived in the crude cabin where the woman had lived before the disaster. Ish

did not go in, but through the open door he saw the rickety bed and chairs

and the sheet-iron stove, and the oil-cloth-draped table with the flies

buzzing about the uncovered food. The outside looked better. They had a

luxuriant garden and a good corn-patch, and were actually tending a small

field of cotton, although what in the world they expected to do with the

cotton was more than Ish could figure out. Apparently they had merely

carried on, doing the things that people in their world were supposed to

do, and thus gaining a sense of security.

They had chickens in a pen, and some pigs. Their painfully naive

embarrassment when Ish saw the pigs was only too plain advertisement that

they had appropriated them from some fw-mer's pen and now felt that the

white man would hold them accountable.

Ish asked for some ftesh eggs, and for a dozen gave them one of his dollar

bills. They seemed to be delighted with the exchange. After a quarter of an

hour, having exhausted all the possibilities of the situation, Ish got into

the car, much to the relief of the reluctant hosts.

He sat in the front seat for a moment, thinking to himself, "Here," he

reflected, "I might be a king in a little way, if I remained. They would

not like it, but from long habit they would, I think, accept the

situation-they would raise vegetables and chickens and pigs for me, and I

could soon have a cow or two. They would do all the work that I needed to

have done. I could be a king, at least, in a little way."

But the idea was only fleeting, and as he drove on, he began to think that

the Negroes had really solved the situation better than he. He was living

as a scavenger upon what was left of civilization; they, at least, were

still living creatively, close to the land and in a stable situation, still

raising most of what they needed.

*Of half a million species of insects only a few dozen were appreciably

affected by the demise of man, and the only ones actually threatened with

extinction were the three species of the human louse. So ancient, if not

honorable, was this association that it had even been used as an argument

for the single origin of man, anthropologists noting that all isolated

tribes scratched and picked at the same parasites and therefore inferring

that the original ape-men must have carried the original insect-ancestors

outward with them from their point of dispersal.*

*Since that first departure, throughout hundreds of millennia, the lice had

adjusted their life nicely to their world, which was the body of man. They

existed as three tribes, taking as their domains, respectively, the head,

the clothing, and the private parts. Thus, in spite of racial differences,

they amicably maintained a tripartite balance of power, setting for their

host an example which he might well have followed. At the same time,

becoming so exactly adapted to man, they lost the capacity of existing upon

any other host.*

*The overthrow of man was therefore their overthrow. Feeling their world

growing cold, they crawled off in search of some new warm world to inhabit,

found none, and died. Billions perished most miserably.*

*At the funeral of *Homo sapiens*there will be few mourners. *Canis

familiaris*as an individual will perhaps send up a few howls, but as a

species, remembering all the kicks and curses, he will soon be comforted

and run off to join his wild fellows.* Homo sapiens,*however, may take

comfort from the thought that at his funeral there will be three wholly

sincere mourners. *

He came to the long bridge across the great brown rolling river, and a

truck was stalled, blocking the narrow single lane which led across to

Memphis.

Feeling like a bad boy, who is doing something forbidden and will be

punished for it, he went against all the traffic signs, took the narrow

single lane on the lefthand side of the railroad tracks, and headed across

toward Tennessee on the road which should lead to Arkansas.

But he met no one, and before long he came to the Tennessee side, and drove

out (still in the wrong direction) through the bridge approach. Memphis was

as, empty as other cities had been, but a south wind was blowing, and it

brought a fetid reek from what had been the teeming districts around Beale

Street. If this was any indication of what Southern cities would be like,

Ish wanted no more of them. He headed fast toward the country again.

Before he had gone far, however, the south wind brought steady rain. Since

driving became dull and wearisome, and since he was certainly in no hurry

to get anywhere, he holed up in a tourist-court at the edge of a small

town, the name of which he did not even bother to ascertain. The gas

pressure was still working at the stove in the kitchenette, and he made the

fresh eggs his chief dish for dinner. They were a real treat, and yet he

ended by being in,some way still unsatisfied. "I wonder" he thought, "if

I'm getting all the things I should to eat." Perhaps he should raid a drug

store for some vitamin tablets. Later, he let Princess out for a run, and

she suddenly vanished into the rain with a long yapping which ended in a

bay as she struck on the trail of some animal. He was disgusted, since he

knew that he might have to wait up an hour for her pleasure to return. She

was back sooner, however, smelling woefully of a skunk. He shut her in the

garage, and she complained bitterly with her yapping, at the disgraceful

way she was being treated.

Ish went to bed, still with the unsatisfied feeling. "Must be suffering

from shock more than I realize consciously," he thought. "Or else the

loneliness is getting me, or maybe good old sex is raising its ugly head."

Shock could do strange things, he knew. He remembered hearing the story of

a man who had seen his wife killed before his eyes in an accident and who

had felt no desire for months.

He thought of the Negroes whom he had seen that day. The woman--middle-aged,

far gone in pregnancy, no beauty at any time--could scarcely have thus

disturbed him. When he thought of the incident, his memories turned chiefly

to the way in which they had found a kind of security by keeping close to

the soil. Then Princess bayed from the garage, and he cursed her, and went

to sleep.

In the morning he still felt unsatisfied and restless. The storm was not

yet over, but at the moment no rain was falling. He decided not to leave,

but to take a walk down the road. Before going he looked into the

station-wagon, and saw the rifle lying on the middle seat. He had hardly

touched it since leaving California; now, without any definite thought, he

took it, tucked it under his arm, and walked down the road.

Princess followed him a few yards, then discovered a new trail, and in

spite of the last night's experience was off upon it, vanishing over the

hill in a series of delighted yelps and bays. "Better luck this time!" he

called after her.

Ish himself walked along with no more definite idea than to stretch his

legs a little or perhaps find a tree with ripe fruit. He was scarcely

thinking of anything when he saw a cow and a calf in a field. There was

nothing remarkable in that; he could see a cow and a calf in nearly any

field in Tennessee. The remarkable fact was that now the loaded rifle was

under his arm, and suddenly he knew what must somewhere have been in his

mind.

Carefully resting the rifle on a fence-post he saw the sights come clearly

into line with the redness of the calf's shoulder. The range was butcher's

distance. He squeezed the trigger, and the rifle spoke and kicked back

against him. As the sound died, he heard the calf give a long choking

wheeze; it stood with legs braced but shaky, a thin stream of blood

bursting from the nostrils. Then it collapsed and fell.

The cow had run a few yards after the shot, and now she stood and turned

uncertainly. Ish did not know what she might do in the defense of her calf.

Taking good aim again, he put a bullet just behind her shoulder. He fired

twice more, for mercy, as she toppled.

He had to walk back to the cabin for the hunting-knife. When he returned,

he carried the reloaded rifle. He felt his own reaction as curious. Before

this time he had never thought much about weapons, but now it was as if he

had declared war upon creation and should look for retaliation upon

himself. Yet, when he came to where the cow and the calf were lying, and

climbed over the fence, he met no resistance or opposition. The calf, to

his dismay, was still breathing. Not liking the job, he cut its throat. He

had never been a hunter, and had never butchered an animal; so he made a

bad haggling job of it. Getting himself well bloodied in the process, he

managed to hack out the liver, when he had got it, he realized that he had

no way to carry it, except in his hand. He had to lay the bloody mass back

among the entrails of the calf, and go back again to the cabin to get a

pan. When he returned to the calf, a crow was already at work upon the

eyes.

When he finally had the liver safely at the cabin, he was so covered with

blood and dirt that he had lost all desire to eat it. He washed as well as

he could at the cabin, and waited around listlessly, since the rain had

again begun to fall. Princess returned, and demanded entrance. Since she

had, by this time, lost most of the skunk's smell, he admitted her. She was

wet and scratched with briers, dirty and foot-sore. She lay on the floor

putting herself into shape with her tongue; he himself lay on the bed as if

spent by emotion, yet in some way satisfied at last. Outside, the rain fell

steadily, and after an hour, for the first time since it all happened, Ish

realized that he had a new sensation--he was merely bored.

He looked around at the cabin, and found a six-months-old magazine; he

settled down to read a story which dealt with the old boy-meets-girl theme,

taking its particular slant from the problems winch arose to hinder true

love as the result of a housing shortage. It was all as far away, Ish

concluded, from his present situation, as if it had been a story about

building the Pyramids. In the course of the morning, he read three stories,

but he found the advertisements much more fascinating. Not one in ten of

them seemed to have any relation to his present situation, because they

were not aimed at man, the individual, so much as at man, the member of a

group-for instance, you should avoid bad breath, riot because it might be a

symptom of approaching toothache or digestive discomfort, but because if

you had bad breath the girls would not like to dance with you or your

boy-friend would not propose.

Yet the magazine had the good effect, at least, of taking him out from

himself again. By noon, he was hungry, and when he looked at the liver now

lying peacefully in a pan, he found that the memory of the bloody and dying

calf had passed out of his mind. He fried a fine succulent piece of it for

his lunch, and enjoyed it greatly. A bit of fresh meat, he concluded, was

what he had been wanting. He gave a piece to Princess, also.

As he sat quietly after lunch, he had a new feeling of satisfaction and

release. To shoot a calf was certainly no feat of sportsmanship, and it was

not getting very close toward the production of one's own food. Yet it was

a little closer to reality than the opening of a can. He seemed to have

moved one step away from a mere scavenging existence, and to be getting a

little closer to the state in which the three Negroes were living. To put

it that an act of destruction had been an act of creation might seem a

paradox, but he felt of it as something of that sort.

*A fence was a fact, and a fence was also a symbol. Between the herds and

the crops, the fence stood as a fact, but between the rye and the oats, it

was only a symbol, for the rye and the oats did not mingle of themselves.

Because offences the land was cut into chunks and blocks. The pasture

changed to the plowed land sharply at the fence, and on the other side of

the plowed land, at the line of the fence, went the highway, and beyond the

highway was the orchard, and then another fence with the lawns and the

house beyond it, and again at a fence, the barnyard. Once the fences are

broken both in fact and in symbol, then there are no more blocks and chunks

of land and sharp changes, but all is hazy and wavy, and fades from one

into the other, as it was in the beginning. *

After that, he lost track of the time still more. He did not travel far in

any day because there was much rain, and the roads were not as smooth and

straight as they had been in the West. Moreover he had lost his sense of

hurry. He worked northeastward through the hills of Kentucky, then struck

the Ohio River bottomland, and went on into Pennsylvania.

He foraged more for himself. He gathered green com from the weed-grown

corn-patches. There were ripe berries and fruit. Now and then in a garden

he found a head or two of lettuce which had not been rumed by worms.

Frequently, he pulled up carrots, and ate them raw, since he was very fond

of raw carrots. He shot a young pig. He used the shotgun to bag two

partridges. Again, with Princess shut in the car and protesting loudly, he

spent a happy two hours slowly stalking a flock of turkeys which always

scurried off just before he was within range. At last, however, he managed

to get close enough to knock over a gobbler. Some weeks ago it must have

been a tame turkey, but now it had gone wild, and from constant necessity

of dodging foxes and wild cats had become almost as wary as if it had lived

all its life in the woods.

Between rains the weather was warm, and when he felt like it, he stripped

and swain in some likely looking stream. Since the water from faucets began

to seem stale, he drank from springs and wells although by now, he judged,

even the larger rivers should be free of sewage and factory refuse.

He became used to the look of the towns, and could generally tell whether

they were entirely empty or whether by searching he might somewhere find a

survivor or two. The liquor-stores were often looted. The other buildings

usually undisturbed, although occasionally there had been tampering with

the banks-people apparently still putting trust in money. In the streets

there would be an occasional pig or dog, less often, a cat.

Even in this once more thickly inhabited part of the country he saw

comparatively few bodies, and there was less stench of death than he had

feared. Most of the farms and many of the smaller towns apparently had been

left deserted when their last inhabitants withdrew to larger centers for

medical care or else fled into the hills, hoping to escape infection. On

the outskirts of every larger town he saw the piled-up dirt where the

bulldozers had worked even in the last days. At the end, necessarily, many

bodies must have been left unburied, but these were usually in the areas

around hospitals which had been concentration-points. At the warning of his

nose he avoided such spots or drove rapidly past them.

The surviving people, he found, were generally singles, occasionally

couples. They were anchored firmly in their own places. Sometimes they

seemed to wish that he would stay there with them, but they never wished to

accompany him. He still did not find any of them with whom he wished to

share the future. If necessary, he thought, he could return.

The country in some ways showed more change than the towns, although one

would hardly have imagined so to begin with. But in the country the crops

were growing up rankly with weeds. In this part, the wheat had not been cut

at the time of the disaster, and now it was heavy in the head and the

grains in some places had started to fall. The cattle and horses wandered

about, and fences were obviously starting to go. Here and there a field of

com would remain undisturbed when the fence was tight, but more often the

animals had forced an entrance.

Then, one morning, he crossed the Delaware River into New Jersey, and

realized that he could reach New York by early afternoon.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 4*

He came to the Pulaski Skyway about noon. Once before, as a boy of fifteen,

he had driven there with his father and mother. Then the streaming traffic

had half terrified him; trucks and cars had come roaring in, seeming to

converge from all directions, and then suddenly to drop out of sight again

as they went off onto the down-ramps. He remembered his father gazing

anxiously, this way and that, to watch the traffic-signs, and his mother

nervously giving-advice. But now, Princess slept on the front seat beside

him, and he speeded along the Skyway by himself.

Far ahead now he saw the high towers of the sky-scrapers, pearl-gray

against a cloudy sky; there had been a shower, and the day was cool for

mid-summer.

When he saw those towers, his feelings were strangely stirred. Now he knew,

what he would not have been quite able to explain before, why he had headed

for New York, even unconsciously. This, to every American, was the center

of the world. According to what happened in New York, so in the long run,

he could only think, it must happen elsewhere--"Falls Rome, falls the

world."

When he came to the clover-leaf above Jersey City, he stopped in the middle

of the Skyway to read the signs. No brakes squealed suddenly behind him; no

horns blared; no truck-drivers bawled obscenities at him for blocking the

road; no policemen shouted through loud-speakers. "At least," he thought,

"life is quieter."

From far off, he just caught the sound, some bird squawked twice-a seagull

probably. The only other sound was the nearly imperceptible murmur of his

own idling engine, as drowsy as the hum of bees. There at the last moment

he flinched from trying either of the tunnels. Untended, they might have

gradually filled with water, and he had a vague fear of being trapped. He

swung north, and at last crossed by the empty George Washington Bridge, and

came to Manhattan.

*Stretched out between its rivers, the city will remain for a long time.

Stone and brick, concrete and asphalt, glass--time deals gently with them.

Water leaves black stains, moss shows green, a little grass springs up in

the cracks. (That is only the surface.) A window-pane grows loose,

vibrates, breaks in a gusty wind. Lighming strikes, loosening the tiles of

a cornice. A wall leans, as footings yield in the long rains; after years

have passed, it falls, scattering bricks across the street. Frost works,

and in the March thaw some flakes of stone scale off. (It is all very

slow.) The rain washes quietly through the gutters into the storm-drains,

and if the storm-drains clog, the rain runs still through the gutters into

the rivers. The snow piles deep in the long canyons, drifting at the street

corners; no one disturbs it. In the spring, it too runs off through the

gutters. As in the desert, a year is like an hour in the night; a century,

like a day.*

*Indeed the city is much like the desert. From the asphalt and

concrete-coated soil the rain runs off both ways into the rivers. Here and

there in a crack the subtle grass and the hardy weeds grow up a little, but

no tree or vine or tall grass takes root. The very shade trees by the

avenues, lacking man's care, die in their shallow pockets. The deer and the

rabbits shun the empty streets; after a while even the rats go away. Only

the flying creatures find there a refuge-the birds nest on the high ledges,

and at morning and evening the bats fly out and in through the few broken

windows. It will remain a long time, a very long time. *

He turned south on Broadway, thinking to follow it clear to the Battery. At

170th Street, however, he came to a very official-looking STREET CLOSED

sign with an arrow directing him to detour eastward. He could have driven

past the sign and ahead, but he felt a caprice to yield docilely to

instructions. He drove over to Amsterdam Avenue, and then went south again.

His nostrils let him know that the Medical Center must have been one of the

last points of concentration, and that the detour sign had been put up to

give directions around it.

Amsterdam Avenue was vacant too. Somewhere in these vast accumulations of

concrete and brick and mortar and plaster, somewhere in all these cave-like

holes that men called rooms, somewhere certainly, some people must be

living. The catastrophe had been nearly universal, and in overcrowded

Manhattan the disease had probably raged even more severely than elsewhere.

Also, he thought, what he had come to call the Secondary Kill might have

been more severe in a wholly urbanized population. Nevertheless, he had

already learned, that a few people had survived elsewhere, and surely among

the millions of Manhattan there would be some. But he did not bother to

blow his horn; a mere straggler here and there he had found to be of little

interest to him now.

He drove on, block after block. Everything was quiet and motionless. The

clouds had broken, and the sun stood high overhead, but the sidewalks were

as empty as if the sun had been the moon and the hour had been three in the

morning. Even then he would have seen a beat-walking policeman or have met

a night-hawk cab. He passed an empty playground.

A few cars were parked along the curbs. He remembered that his father had

driven him through downtown Manhattan on a Sunday when even Wall Street lay

deserted. This was much the same, but worse.

At last, near Lewisohn Stadium, nuzzling around an entryway, two

thin-looking dogs supplied the first sign of life. In the next block he saw

a few pigeons fluttering about, not many.

He drove on, passed the red-brick buildings of Columbia' University, and

stopped in front of the high, still unfinished cathedral. It was unfinished

now, and so it would remain.

He pushed at the door; it swung open; he entered. Momentarily he had a

horrible thought that he might find the nave, Piled with the bodies of

those who at the last hour had gathered there to pray. But there was no

one. He walked down a side aisle, and went into the little chapels of the

apse, one after another-those where the English and the French and the

Italians and all the others of that teeming polyglot city had been invited

to kneel and worship. The sunlight streamed in at the stained-glass

windows; it was all as beautiful as he remembered from before. He had a

wild desire to throw himself on his knees before one of the altars. "There

are no atheists in fox holes," he remembered, but the whole world now was

nothing but a huge fox hole! But certainly what had happened did not

inspire one to think that God was particularly interested in the human

race, or in its individuals.

He walked back along the main aisle. Turning, he looked up the nave, and

let its grandeur beat in upon him. He felt a little choking in the throat.

This, then, was the end of all man's highest striving and aspiration.... He

went out to the empty street, and got into the car again.

At Cathedral Parkway he swung east, and defying traffic signs entered

Central Park and went south along the East Drive, thinking that on a summer

day people might go to the Park as they would have done ordinarily. But he

saw no one. From his previous visit as a boy he remembered squirrels, but

he saw no squirrels either; starving dogs and cats had apparendy accounted

for them already. On a meadow he saw a bison bull grazing; not far off, a

horse. He passed the back of the Metropolitan Museum, and saw Cleopatra's

Needle, now doubly orphaned. At Sherman's statue he swung into Fifth

Avenue, and a tag-end of verse popped into his mind: "Now all your

victories are in vain."

*An island within an island, the green oblong of the Park will remain. It

has open soil where the rain penetrates. The sun shines upon it. In the

first season the grass grows tall; the seeds fall from the trees and

bushes, the birds bring in more seeds. Give it two seasons, three seasons,

and the eager saplings are sprouting. Give it twenty years, and it is a

jungle of second growth with each tree straining upward to gain light above

itsfellows, and the hardy natives, fast-growing ash and maple, crowding out

the soft exotics which man once planted there. You hardly see the bridle

path any more; leaf-litter lies thick on the narrow roads. Give it a

hundred years, and you walk in full-grown forest, scarcely knowing that man

was ever there except where the stone arch still spans the under-pass,

making a strange cave. The doe walks in the woods, and the wild-cat leaps

upon the rabbit, and the bass jumps in the lake. *

In the tall windows of the fashion shops, the mannequins still postured

strangely in gay costumes, their jewelry flashing. But Fifth Avenue lay

before him empty, as quiet as Main Street of Podunk on a Sunday morning.

The windows of one great jewelry store had been smashed. "I hope," thought

Ish, "he found the diamonds good eating, poor guy. No, I hope he was

somebody who liked pretty stones because they were pretty, like a child

picking them up on the beach. Perhaps, with his diamonds and rubies, he

really died happier." On the whole, however, there was little disturbance

along Fifth Avenue. "The corpse is laid out in good condition," he thought.

"Yes, Fifth Avenue makes a beautiful corpse."

A few pigeons fluttered up at Rockefeller Center, disturbed now by the

sound of a single motor. At Forty-second Street, yielding to a whim, he

stopped the car in the middle of Fifth Avenue and got out, leaving Princess

shut up.

He walked east on Forty-second Street, the empty sidewalk ridiculously

wide. He entered Grand Central Terminal, and looked in at the vast expanse

of waiting-room.

"Waugh!" he called loudly, and felt a child-like pleasure as an echo came

reverberating back from the high vault, through the emptiness.

He wanderedd back to the street, and a revolving door caught his eye. He

pushed against it idly, and found himself in the lobby of a large hotel.

Flanked by huge chairs and davenports, the lobby led on to the desk.

Standing just inside the door, he had a moment's idea of approaching the

desk and entering into an imaginary conversation with the

reservation-clerk. He had telegraphed from--well, Kansas City would be a

good place. Yes, and his reservation had been confirmed! What were all

these excuses now? But the insane notion faded. With a thousand rooms empty

and the poor clerk gone--who knew where?--the joke was not very funny.

At the same time also he noticed something different. Over all the chairs

and davenports and cigarette-stands and marble floors lay a distinct layer

of gray dust.

Perhaps, not being a housekeeper, he had not previously noticed dust, or

perhaps this place was particularly dusty. No matter which! From now on,

dust would be a part of his life.

Back at the car, he slipped it into gear, crossed Forty-second Street, and

continued south. On the steps of the Library he saw a gray cat crouched,

paws stretched out in front, as if in caricature of the stone lions above.

At the Flatiron Building he turned into Broadway, and followed it clear -to

Wall Street. There they both got out, and Princess showed interest in some

kind of trail which ran along the sidewalk. Wall Street! He enjoyed walking

along its empty length. With a little observation he diskovered that there

was some grass, weeds rather, showing green here and there in the cracks of

the gutter. He remembered the family story that an early Dutch settler, one

of their ancestors, had owned a good farm in this vicinity. His father,

when the bills were high, used to say, "Well, I wish we had held on to that

farm on Manhattan Island," Now Ish could take the land back for all that

anybody cared. Yet this wilderness of concrete and steel and asphalt was

the last place where anybody would really care to live now. He would trade

that Wall Street farm for any ten acres in Napa Valley, or even for a small

comer of Central Park.

He walked back to his car, and drove south on Broadway still, the little

distance to the Battery. There he gazed across the expanse of the lower Bay

toward the ocean. This was the end of the road.

There might be communities left in Europe or South America or on some of

the islands, but he could not go to find out. Right here, doubtless, his

Dutch ancestor had come ashore some three hundred years ago. Now he, Ish,

had rounded the full circle.

He noticed the Statue of Liberty. "Liberty!" he thought ironically. "At

least, I have that! More than anyone ever thought of, when they put the

lady up there with her torch!"

Close to the shore of Governor's Island a large liner was beached. She must

have been run aground at high tide, and now at low tide she loomed up far

above the water, canted at a crazy angle. Secretly infected before leaving

Europe, before long with passengers and crew alike dead and dying, that

ship must have made desperately for port--for a port which itself had

strangely ceased to send out signals. No tugs came out to meet her. Perhaps

a dying boatswain on the bridge lacked even the crew to drop an anchor, and

with dimming eyes merely steered her toward the mudbank. There she would

rest, and doubtless the waves would wash up mud against her obstructing

bulk, and in a century she would be almost indistinguishable--the

rust-covered center of a little island with trees growing up around her.

Going on, Ish swung off through the East Side, struck a noisome area again

at the great center of Bellevue Hospital, turned west and found the same

difficulty around Pennsylvania Station and the adjoining hotels, and

finally went north on Eleventh Avenue. He turned into Riverside Drive, and

noticed that the sun was getting low over the smokeless smokestacks of the

Jersey shore. He was just wondering where he should spend the night when he

heard a voice calling out, "Hi, there!"

Princess burst into a frenzy of barking. Stopping the car, he looked back,

and saw a man emerging from the entryway of an apartment house. Ish got out

to meet him, leaving the barking Princess in the car.

The man advanced with outstretched hand. He was completely

conventional-looking, well shaved, wearing a tropical worsted suit, with

even the coat on. He was middle-aged and overweight, with a smiling face.

Ish half expected him to break into the conventional shopkeeper's greeting

"Well, sir, what can I do for you today?"

"Abrams is the name," he said, "Milt Abrams."

Ish fumbled for his own name--it was so long since he had thought of it.

Introductions over, Milt Abrams took him inside. They went into a pleasant

apartment on the second floor. A blond-haired woman, about forty, well

dressed, almost smart-looking, was sitting at a cocktail table, and there

was a cocktail shaker before her. "Meet--the Mrs.," said Milt Abrams, and

from the way he hesitated, Ish knew that the Mrs. merely covered up his

embarrassment. The catastrophe would scarcely have spared a husband and

wife, and there had been no opportunity for any ceremony since. Milt Abrams

was obviously conventional enough to let this worry him even under the

circumstances.

The Mrs. looked at Ish with a smile, possibly at Milt's discomfort. "Call

me Ann," she said. "And have a drink! Warm martinis, that's all I can offer

you! Not a scrap of *ice* in New York City!" In her own way she was as

typical a New Yorker as Milt.

"I tell her," said Milt. "I keep on telling her, not to drink that

stuff--warm martinis are poison."

"Think of it," said Ann, "spending a whole summer in New York City--and

without a scrap of ice!" Nevertheless, she seemed to have overcome her

dislike of warm martinis sufficiently to have got on the outside of several

of them.

"Here, I'll offer you something better," said Milt. Opening a cupboard, he

displayed a fine shelf of Amontillado, Napoleon brandy, and selected

liqueurs. "And," he added, "they don't call for ice."

Obviously, Milt was a natural connoisseur in liquor. The bottle of Chateau

Margaux that he produced for dinner was further proof.

Chateau Margaux over a meal of cold canned corned beef was not perhaps all

that could be wished, but the wine was plentiful enough to produce in Ish a

slight and happy befuddlement. Ann was definitely befuddled by this time.

The evening passed pleasantly enough. They played cards by

candlelight--three-handed bridge. They drank liqueurs. They listened to

records on a tinny-toned portable phonograph which had the great advantage

of not needing electric power, but of being wound up by hand. They

talked--as you might talk on any evening. "That record scratches.... I

haven't won a finesse yet.... Let me have another glassful."

It was a kind of make-believe. You pretended there was a world outside the

windows; you were playing cards by candlelight because that was a pleasant

thing to do; you did not trade reminiscences or talk of what you might

think anyone would talk about under such circumstances. And Ish realized

that this was proper and right. Normal people, and Milt and Ann seemed to

be certainly normal, did not concern themselves much with either the

distant past or the distant future. Fortunately, they lived in the present.

Yet, as the cards were dealt and played, by incidental remarks here and

there, Ish put together a great deal of the situation. Milt had been

part-owner of a small jewelry store. Ann had been the wife of someone named

Harry, and they had been prosperous enough to spend summers on the coast of

Maine. The only work for pay that Ann had ever done had been to sell

perfume in one of the more exclusive shops, as a kind of lark during the

Christmas rush. Now the two of them occupied a fine apartment, vastly

better than even Harry had been able to provide. The electricity had failed

immediately, because the dynamos which supplied New York had been

steam-driven; the water supply remained apparently at normal, and this

prevented any sanitary problem.

Actually they were marooned on Riverside Drive. Being ordinary New Yorkers

they had never owned a car, and so neither of them could drive. Automobiles

were mysteries to them. Since all public transportation had now

disappeared, they were left wholly afoot, and neither was of an age or

temperament or physique to enjoy walking. Broadway, with its still

well-stocked food- and liquor-stores, formed their practical eastern limit;

the River lay to the west; they wandered up and down the Drive, perhaps

half a mile north and south. That was their world.

Within these narrow limits they did not think that anyone else was living.

As to what might be happening in the rest of the city, they had not as much

idea as Ish. To them the East Side was as far off as Philadelphia; Brooklyn

might as well be Saudi Arabia.

Once in a while, indeed, they had heard cars go by on Riverside Drive, and

on rare occasions they had seen one. They had been wary, however, about

approaching any of the cars, because from loneliness and a sense of

helplessness, a fear had come upon them, and they had a land of bug-a-boo

terror about roving gangsters.

"But everything was getting so quiet that I really wanted to see someone.

You weren't driving fast," said Milt almost diffidently, "and I saw you

were alone, and didn't look bad, and had an out-of-town license."

Ish started to say that he would give them his pistol, but checked himself.

Firearms were as likely to create as to solve difficulties. In all

probability Milt had never fired a gun in his life, and he did not look

like an apt learner. As for Ann, she gave the impression of being one of

those excitable women who would be as dangerous to friend as to foe if she

ever started cutting loose with a pistol.

In spite of having no motion pictures and no radio and in spite of lacking

even that great and continual show of the passing populace of the city,

still Milt and Ann did not seem to be particularly bored. They played

cribbage, alternating with two-handed rummy--for high, but of course

mythical, stakes. As the result, Ann now owed Milt several millions of

dollars. They played endless records--jazz, folk-songs, dance-tunes--on the

tinny phonograph. They read uncounted volumes of mystery stories which they

got from the circulating libraries on Broadway and left strewn around the

apartment. Physically, he guessed, they found each other attractive.

But if they were not bored, neither did they seem to have much pleasure in

life. There was a great vacantness somewhere. From shock they were walking

in a kind of haze. They were people without hope. New York, their world,

had vanished; it would never live again in their time. They had no interest

when Ish tried to tell them what had happened in the rest of the United

States. "Falls Rome, falls the world."

Next morning Ann was having another warm martini at breakfast, and still

complaining that there was not a scrap of ice in New York City. They urged

him to stay longer; they urged him even to stay permanently. He could

certainly find himself a girl somewhere in New York, they said; she would

make a fourth for bridge. They were the pleasantest people he had found

since the catastrophe. Yet he had no desire to stay there with them, even

if he could locate a girl for a fourth at bridge--and other things. No, he

decided, he would strike back for the West again.

But as he drove off and they stood at the entryway of the apartment-house

and waved to him, he almost turned back to stay a while longer. He liked

them, and he pitied them. He hated to think what would happen when winter

struck, and the deep canyons between the buildings were clogged with snow

and the north wind whistled down the groove of Broadway. There would be no

central heating in New York City that winter, though indeed there would be

plenty of ice, and no need to drink warm martinis.

He doubted whether they could survive the winter, even though they piled

broken furniture into the fireplace. Some accident would quite likely

overtake them, or pneumonia might strike them down. They were like the

highly bred spaniels and pekinese who at the end of their leashes had once

walked along the city streets. Milt and Ann, too, were city-dwellers, and

when the city died, they would hardly survive without it. They would pay

the penalty which in the history of the world, he knew, had always been

inflicted upon organisms which specialized too highly. Milt and Ann--the

owner of a jewelry store, a salesgirl for perfumes--they had specialized

until they could no longer adapt themselves to new conditions. They were

almost at the other end of the scale from those Negroes in Arkansas who had

so easily gone back to the primitive way of living on the land.

The Drive curved, and he knew that they would now be out of his sight, even

if he turned around. He felt the warmth and fullness of tears in his

eyes--Good-bye, Milt and Ann!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 5*

Headed west--going home, as he still thought of it--he felt often as if he

were on a leisurely camping trip. A man and his dog drove in a car, and the

days slipped by uneventfully.

He crossed the rich farmlands of eastern Pennsylvania where the ripe

unharvested wheat was golden brown and the com stood shoulder-high. When he

came to the empty Turnpike, he stepped hard on the accelerator, and steered

deliriously around the neatly banked curves at eighty and ninety miles an

hour, careless of danger, intoxicated with the mere joy of speed. He went

on into Ohio.

By now gas-pressure had failed almost everywhere, but he picked up a

two-burner gasoline stove which functioned perfectly. When the weather was

fine, he merely camped in the woods, and built himself a fire. Tinned

goods, salvaged from stores, still remained the basis of his diet, but he

foraged in the cornfields, and took vegetables and fruit when he could find

any.

He would have enjoyed some eggs, but chickens seemed to have vanished

completely. He saw no ducks either. Weasels, cats, and rats, he imagined,

had cleaned out this smaller poultry, grown too stupid under long

domestication to live without protection. Once, however, he heard the

raucous call of guinea-fowl, and twice he saw geese calmly floating in

barnyard ponds. He shot one of them, but found he had had the bad luck to

bag an old gander, too tough to be made palatable by any campfire cookery.

He often saw turkeys in the woods, and occasionally shot one. If Princess

had been a bird-dog, he might have tried for partridges and pheasants, and

though she departed hot on the trail of innumerable rabbits, she never

brought one back to within range of the shotgun. In the end he began to

wonder whether these always invisible rabbits might not be pure figments of

her imagination.

Cattle were. common in the pastures, but he found the thought of the

butchering too unpleasant, and had no great hunger for meat in the hot

weather. He saw occasional small flocks of sheep: When the road went

through swampy country, he sometimes almost ran over hogs, which seemed to

enjoy stretching out in the shade on the coolness of the deserted concrete

pavement. Lean dogs still haunted the towns. He rarely saw cats, but he

sometimes heard them at night, and so he judged that they had already

returned to nocturnal habits.

Avoiding the larger cities, he drove westward--Indiana, Illinois,

Iowa--through the fields of tall corn and all the empty little towns,

sun-flooded and empty by day, dark and empty by night. Still he looked for

the small things that showed how the wilderness was moving in to take

chargethe tiny sprout of a poplar tree standing up in the shaggy grass of a

lawn, a telephone wire dangling on the road, the tracks of dried mud where

a coon had paused to dip its food in the water of the fountain beneath the

statue of the Civil War soldier in front of the court-house.

He came upon people now generally by twos or threes (The isolated molecules

were beginning to find one another.) Usually these people were clinging to

some little spot that they had known previous to the disaster. As before,

not one of them showed any desire to go away with him, but sometimes they

invited him to stay. He found the offer no temptation. These people were

physically alive, but more and more he realized that they walked about in a

kind of emotional death. He had studied enough anthropology to realize that

the same phenomenon had been observed on a smaller scale before. Destroy

the culture-pattem in which people lived, and often the shock was too great

for the individuals. Take away family and job, friends and church, all

customary amusements and routines, hope too-and life became walking death.

The Secondary Kill was still at work. Once he saw a woman whose mind had

failed. The clothes indicated an original prosperity, but now she was

scarcely able to care for herself and could certainly not last through a

winter. Several survivors told him of others who had committed suicide.

As yet, though sometimes he wondered, he himself was conscious of no great

strain either of shock or of loneliness. He attributed this to his

maintenance of interest in the whole progress of events, and to his own

peculiar temperament. He thought many times of his qualifications for the

new life, as he had once listed them.

Sometimes, while he drove or sat by his fire, erotic images rose to his

mind. He thought of Ann on Riverside Drive, crisp and well-groomed in her

blondness. But she was an exception. The usual women were ill-kempt and

even dirty, their faces blank with mental apathy, except when they laughed

hysterically or giggled. Some of them were obviously approachable, but

always he felt desire wither away within him. This, he realized, might be

the particular form that shock took with him. But there was no need to

force matters; in the end he might change.

All across the blazing plains of Nebraska the wheat had not been harvested.

Now it stood, losing its golden color, turning brown. The grains were

already dropping from the heads. Next year there would be a volunteer crop,

but all around the edges other kinds of grass would also sprout up, grass

that could grow more readily when the sod was not disturbed. Soon, he knew

these native grasses would form a sod and crowd out the wheat.

Estes Park was restful after the heat of the plains. He stayed there for a

week. The trout had not struck at a hook all summer, and the fishing was

excellent.

Next came the high mountains, and then the desert again and the sagebrush.

Then he was pressing his foot hard and steering round the curves of U.S. 40

toward the summit of Donner Pass.

On the other side of the Pass he suddenly sensed that the country all ahead

was palled in smoke. "What month is it, anyway?" he thought, "August? Early

September, more likely. Bad forest-fire season." And he remembered that now

there would be no one to battle against the fires which lightning would

still start.

By Yuba Gap he suddenly came to the fire. It was burning low on both sides

of the road, and he chanced running through it. The highway was wide, and

things were not too hot, until on rounding a curve he came squarely upon a

snag, fallen and blocking the way completely, blazing along its whole

length, fierce with heat. Suddenly he again felt the old fear which he had

shaken off (years ago, it seemed) that morning in the desert--the utter

loneliness to face an emergency or recover from any accident.

There was nothing for it but to turn the car around on the highway. He

shuttled back and forth twice, killing the engine in his panicky haste. It

started again, and he swung on the back trail out of the flames.

Once more in safety, he recovered his calm. He drove back to the junction

with California 20, and decided to make another try. There was some fire

along this road, too, but generally it had swept past already. He drove

carefully, avoiding a few chunks of fallen tree on the road, and managed to

get through. He was appalled, however, as he gained the ridge beyond, and

saw fire seemingly everywhere. He was lucky to make it.

He had planned to camp that night in the cool of the mountains; instead, to

escape being fiirther blocked by fire, he drove on, and unrolled his

sleeping-bag in the little park of a foothill town. No lights were burning.

He was disappointed, for he had hoped to find lights in California. The

forest-fire, however, would undoubtedly have burned out the power lines, at

least locally.

As he lay, trying to sleep, hot and uncomfortable, the dryness of smoke in

his nostrils, he had the feeling that now he was trapped. Even though the

fires would burn themselves out, the roads across the Sierra would be

permanently blocked by many fallen trees and by landslides and washouts

upon the denuded slopes.

In the morning, as usual, he felt more cheerful. If he was trapped,

California was a comfortably large place to be trapped in, and even though

the Sierra would be impassable, the southern road through the desert might

remain open for a long time. He was just ready to start, but Princess, with

her usual perverseness, suddenly gave tongue, and disappeared on a trail.

Irritated, he waited for her, and when she did not return, he changed his

plans, and spent most of the day lolling, half naked, in the shade of some

trees. In the late afternoon, he started.

At twilight he came to the crest of the hill, and looked out again over the

broad expanse of all-the Bay cities. With a sudden start of pleasure he saw

that most of the street-lights were still burning. There had been no

electric lights for such a long time that he could really not remember

where he had last seen them. All the steam-driven power-plants must have

failed almost immediately, and even the smaller hydro-electric systems had

not lasted long. He felt a curious local pride mingling with his pleasure;

perhaps these were the last electric lights left burning in the whole

world.

At the moment he could almost think that it had all been some wild vagary

of the imagination, and that he had now returned to a normally functioning

city.

The long empty highway ahead of him gave the lie to such thoughts. He

looked more carefully. A few sections, he decided, had blacked out through

local failure of power since he had been away The lights on the Golden Gate

Bridge were either extinguished, or else he could not see them because of

the smoke drift upon the Bay.

He turned into San Lupo Drive. As far as he could see from the

street-lights and the headlight glare, everything looked just the same as

when he had last left it. "There'll always be a San Lupo Drive!" he

thought, and then he realized that at least he was enough like all the

other survivors to pick out some particular familiar spot, and though he

went away, to return to it again like the homing pigeon.

He opened the front door, snapped the lights on and looked. Nothing was

changed. He had known that it in be so, and yet there had always been hope.

He felt no active sorrow, but only dullness.

*"The sere and yellow leaf,"* he thought, saying a line he had heard on the

stage, but not knowing what play. *"There would have been a time...."*

Princess made a sudden dash into the kitchen, slipped on the linoleum,

skidded, yelped comically, and recovered. Thankful to her again for

breaking the tension, he followed her. She was sniffing along the

baseboard, but he failed to discover what had excited her.

"Well," he thought, walking back to the living-room, "if I have no feelings

left, that is perhaps strange, but at least there is no one now to whom I

can pretend. It is probably all part of what I am passing through. "

The note which he had left posted on the desk was still there, undisturbed,

looking remarkably fresh. He took it, crumpled it, threw it into the

fireplace, scratched a match. He hesitated a moment. Then he touched the

match to the paper, and watched the flame blaze up. *That* was finished!

*In that generation there will be neither father nor mother, nor wife, nor

child, nor friend. But it will be as in the ancient tales when the gods

reared up a new people from stones or dragons' teeth, and they were all

strangers with strange faces, and no man knew his fellow's face.*

The next morning he settled down to establish his life. Food, he knew

already, was no problem at all. In the nearest business district he began

looking into store-windows. Rats and mice were making a mess of everything,

and the floors were littered with gnawed cartons and spilled food. Through

one window, however, he was startled to see the gaily colored piles of

fruit and vegetables as fresh and lovely as ever. He stared incredulously,

peering through the dust-coated glass. Then, first with irritation and then

with amusement, he realized that the bright colors were merely from the

papier-mâché oranges, apples, tomatoes, and avocados which the store in the

old days had used for a permanent front-window display.

After a while he saw through the windows a grocery which was unlittered.

Apparently it must be rodent-proof. Carefully jimmying a window, he got

into the store.

The bread was inedible, and weevils were at work even in some of the

carefully sealed boxes of crackers. But the dried fruit and everything

inside of tin and glass was as good as ever. As he was picking out some

cans of olives, he heard an electric motor start. Curiously, he opened the

refrigerator, and found that the butter was still perfectly preserved. Next

he investigated the deep-freeze units, and found fresh meat, frozen

vegetables, ice-cream, and even materials for a green salad. When he left

with his loot, he closed the window carefully behind him, to keep at least

that one store free of rats.

After he had returned to the house, he reflected upon his position again,

and decided that as yet the mere maintenance of life would be easy,

indefinitely. Food, clothing-the shops were full, and he had only to help

himself! Water still gushed from the faucets at full pressure. Gas had

failed, and if it had been a country of bitterly cold winters, he might

have had to consider laying in some kind of fuel supply. But his gasoline

stove served excellently for cooking; if the fireplace was not sufficient

in the winter, he could round up a battery of such stoves and supply

himself with all the heat he needed. In fact, he soon began to feel so

pleasantly self-sufficient that he feared he was turning into a hermit like

the old man he had once seen.

*In those days when there had been death even in the air and civilization

tottered toward its end--in those days, the men who controlled the flow of

the water looked at one another and said, "Even though we fall sick and

die, still, the people must have water." And they thought of plans that

they had laid carefully in those times when men feared that bombs would

fall. Then they set the valves and opened the channels, so that the water

flowed freely all the way from the great dams in the mountains and through

the long siphons and into the tunnels and finally to the reservoirs from

which it would flow, all at the pull of the earth, through all the faucets.

"Now," they said, "when we are gone, the water will flow on--yes, until the

pipes rust out, and that will be the time of a generation!" Then they died.

But they died as men who have finished their work and lie down quietly,

secure in their honor.*

*So at the end, there was still the blessing of water, and no one thirsted.

And even when only a few wanderers walked through the city streets, the

water still flowed. *

Ish had feared at first that he would suffer from mere boredom, but he soon

found himself as busy as he wished to be. The desire for activity which had

expressed itself in his eastern trip had now faded out. He slept a great

deal. He also found himself sitting for long periods, conscious but in

sheer apathy. Such lapses, however, frightened him, and he always tried to

force himself into some kind of activity.

Fortunately, though the mechanics of living were not complicated, they took

up an appreciable part of his time.

He had to prepare his food, and he soon found that unless he washed the

dishes promptly, a stream of ants appeared, to make everything twice as

difficult. He was forced, for the same reason, to wrap up the garbage and

carry it somewhere away from the house. He had to feed Princess; since she

was getting smelly, he even bathed her, over her loud protests.

One day, wanting to shake himself out of his apathy, he went to the Public

Library, smashed a lock with his hammer, and after some browsing found

himself (a little to his own amusement) walking out with *Robinson Crusoe*

and *The Swiss Family Robinson.*

These books, however, did not interest him greatly. Crusoe's religious

preoccupations seemed boring and rather silly. As for the Robinsons, he

felt (as he had felt when a boy) that the ship remained for the family a

kind of infinite grab-bag from which at any time they might take exactly

what they wanted.

Although the radio was dead, he still had the family's record-player and

collection of records. After a while he located in a music store a better

record-player. It was heavy, but he was just able to get it home on the

station-wagon tailgate, and set it up in the fiving-room. He also took all

the records he wanted. Feeling the need of something more too, he helped

himself to a fine accordion. With the aid of an instructionbook, he managed

to make some very soul-satisfying noises on it, although Princess objected

at times with loud howls. He also supplied himself with drawing-materials,

but never got round to using them.

His chief interest remained the careful observation of what was happening

to the world after the removal of man's controls. He drove around through

all parts of the city, and into the near-by country. At other times,

carrying his field-glasses, he took long walks through the hills, with

Princess trailing now behind him and now dashing off in wild pursuit of

that perpetual unseen rabbit.

Once he searched for the old man whom he had found storing up all those

supplies of miscellaneous goods. After some trouble he located the house,

and found the rat's nest of materials which had been piled in it. But the

old man was not in the house, and there was no evidence as to where he had

gone or whether he was still alive. Aside from this, Ish made no effort to

find people, remembering how unsatisfactory had been the results of his

previous attempts.

The look of the streets was changing a little. The drought of summer had

not yet been broken, but the winds had blown dust and leaves and trash, and

deposited them in little piles here and there. Over most of the city he saw

no animals at all, neither dogs nor cats nor rats. In certain areas,

however, particularly near the water-front, he saw a good many dogs,

although only of a certain kind. They were small and active ones, terriers

or terrier-like mongrels. By watching, he saw that they marked the

establishment of some new cycle of life. They scavenged in the supplies

which they found in the stores, perhaps having learned this from the rats.

Where the rats pawed open a carton of crackers, the dogs came in and ate.

But also the dogs apparently lived largely upon the rats. This accounted

for their concentration in the areas where rats had been somewhat abundant

even before the catastrophe. The dogs had also apparently driven away or

killed off the cats, doubtless getting scratched in the process, but also

achieving some desperately needed meals.

These dogs amused Ish. They seemed almost to swagger, cocky still, as

terriers were supposed to be. Though dirty and thin, they exuded vigor and

self-confidence, as if knowing that they had solved the problem of life.

Temperamentally they must represent the individuals who had always lived

more, or less on their own, taking care of themselves as they wished and

paying scant attention to man. They showed no interest in Ish, keeping

distance, not trying either to make friends or to escape from him. After

Princess had tangled in a rough-and-tumble fight with one of the bitches,

he took the precaution of keeping her on a leash or in the car whenever he

drove through such districts.

In parks and on the edges of the city, wherever there was a good growth of

bushes, he occasionally saw a cat. They kept mostly to the branches,

apparently fearing the dogs and at the same time ready to prey upon birds.

During his walks in the hills he had never seen any dogs until one day he

was surprised to hear a medley of yaps and deeper bays. Gaining a point

from which he could look out, he saw a half dozen cattle, on what had once

been the golf course, closely pursued and being harried by some eight or

ten dogs. Focusing the field-glasses, he saw that the dogs were of

different varieties, but none of them of the short-legged ratter type.

There was a magnificent Dane, a collie, a spotted Dalmatian and others

which had more the mongrel look but were all long of leg and moderately

powerful. They were obviously a hunting pack, spontaneously formed and

already experienced at their business. They were trying to cut out one of

the calves. But the cattle fought back, vigorously, homs toward the pack,

or kicking out from behind. They gradually made their way out of the open

stretches of grass. When they reached the shelter of some bushes at the

edge of the golf course, they seemed to gain the advantage, and the dogs

drew off.

Since the show was over, Ish called Princess, and they started to walk back

a mile toward where he had left the car. In a few minutes he heard the bay

of the pack again. It came closer, and suddenly he knew that they were on

his own trail.

Panic struck at him. He started to run. But after a few yards he realized

that running would be of no use and only an invitation. He stilled his

panic, gathered up a few stones, and selected a fallen branch to serve for

a club. He continued to walk toward the car. The baying came closer; then

suddenly it stopped, and he knew that the dogs must have sighted him. He

hoped that the long-ingrained respect for mankind had survived, but also he

suddenly began to wonder what had happened to the old man and the other

people whom he had once seen in this region. Now one of the dogs, an ugly

black mongrel, came out on the road right in front of him. Fifty yards off,

it stopped, sat down, and looked at him. As he drew closer, he raised his

arm, and made a gesture of throwing a stone. By age-old reaction the dog

jumped up. It loped to the side of the road, and disappeared into the

bushes. Ish could hear movement elsewhere in the brush, as if the dogs were

circling about. Princess was behaving in her usual irritating and uncertain

fashion. Now she cringed, tail between legs, brushing against him. Again

she made short provocative dashes with loud barks, this direction and that,

as if challenging one and all to combat with her and her man.

Now he could see the car far ahead; he walked steadily, husbanding his

stones, looking backward only now and then, depending upon Princess to give

warning, if a sudden attack should come from behind. He caught a glimpse of

the Dane standing in a gap between bushes, a magnificent dog, heavy as a

man. With a loud yap Princess made a suicidal dash at the great . He sprang

toward her, and at the same time the collie dashed out of the bushes on the

left. But Princess doubled with the agility of a rabbit, and the two larger

dogs collided in their rush, and caromed off each other, snarling. Princess

came back again to brush against his legs, her tail drooping. Now the

Dalmatian crossed into the road ahead and stood there, red tongue lolling

out. Ish continued his steady pace. The Dalmatian was the least fiercesome

looking of the dogs, and Ish felt that he might brave that one. A handsome

collar still circled the spotted neck, a metal dogtag dangling from it.

Uneasily, Ish saw that it was thin, with ribs showing, and yet did not look

in too bad condition. Evidently on rabbits or calves or on whatever the

pack might run down or find as carrion, the dogs were managing to get

along. He hoped that they had not yet been driven into cannibalism, -and

that their interest in Princess might be somewhat playful-not to mention

their interest in a stray man. At twenty feet distance, without slacking

his steady pace, Ish raised his arm, threatening. The Dalmatian suddenly

dropped tail between legs, and slunk off. The car was close now, and Ish

relaxed.

He got to the car, opened the door for Princess to jump in, and stilling a

last-moment panicky impulse to scramble,. he himself stepped in behind her

with dignity. As the door clicked shut, he had an immediate feeling of

safety. He let his hand close comfortably around the solid handle of the

hammer which lay at his feet. He felt sick with the reaction.

Looking out from the car, he saw only the handsome Dalmatian, sitting at

the side of the road. Now being safe, Ish felt his attitude quickly

changing. Actually the dogs had done him no harm, and indeed had not really

even threatened him. During a few minutes he had thought of them as wild

creatures thirsting for his blood. Now, they seemed a little pitiful, as if

they might merely have been seeking the companionship of a man because of

what they remembered long ago-of food laid out in dishes, of crackling logs

in the fireplace, of a patting hand and a soothing voice. As he drove away,

he wished them no bad luck, but rather hoped that they would manage

occasionally to snap up a rabbit or pull down a calf.

The next morning the whole matter had even a more comic aspect when he

became aware of Princess's changed condition. Not wanting any puppies, he

shut her in the basement.

Yet he could not be sure, and he decided if there was one way rather than

another by which he did not care to die, it was to be torn to pieces by the

teeth of dogs. After that he made it a rule always to walk in the hills

with a pistol strapped at his belt, or else with his rifle or shot-gun....

Two days later the problem of dogs had come to seem a petty one compared

with the problem of ants. They had already troubled him, but now they

seemed to arrive from all directions at once and to. cover everything. Even

in the old days, he could remember that constant battle-his mother's cry of

dismay at finding a line of them in the kitchen, his father's irritation,

and the constant debate about whether they should summon the ant-man or try

to handle the situation themselves. But now the ants were a hundred times

worse than ever before. No longer did ardent householders combat them in

the houses, and even wage offensive war against them in their own

strongholds. Now after a few months their powers mg had brought their

numbers to climactic proportions. Probably, also, they had found great

supplies of food somewhere.

They streamed everywhere. Ish was sorry not to be a good enough

entomologist to ascertain what really was happening and to work out the

history of this overpowering increase. But in spite of some investigations,

he never even discovered for certain whether the ants were spreading

outward from some great center of development or whether they were breeding

equally all over the city.

Their scouts ranged everywhere. Suddenly he had to become a furiously

meticulous housekeeper, for the slightest scrap of food or even a dead fly

brought an immediate stream of ants an inch wide, overwhelming the

insignificant prey which had attracted them. He found them wandering upon

Princess's coat like fleas, although apparently they did not bite. He found

them in his own clothes. Once in the early morning he awoke with a horrible

dream because a stream of ants was pouring across his own cheek, bent to

some goal which he never discovered.

Actually the house was only alien ground into which they made raids. Their

real strength lay outside. Their hills seemed now to be everywhere. He

could not overturn a clod without having ants swarm out by thousands from

burrows that pierced the earth. They must be annihilating all the other

insects, he thought, destroying their means of subsistence even if not

killing them. He got bottles of ant-poison and DDT spray from the drug

store, and tried to make the house into a hostile island, but the pressure

of numbers was so great from the outside that they streamed across his

spray. Doubtless all the trespassers inevitably died, but the death of even

millions of individuals would not affect such numbers appreciably. He tried

to estimate how many ants must be living on this one city lot, but he came

out with an unbelievable answer in billions. Had they no natural enemies?

Had they broken all limits Of control? With the removal of man were they

now destined to inherit the earth?

Yet, after all, they were only the little hustling ants which had irritated

and plagued California housewives. Making some investigations, he found

that actually the range of the plague did not extend appreciably beyond the

limits of the city. In some way, like dogs and cats and rats, these ants

had come to be domestic animals dependent upon the activities of man. This

gave him a certain hope. If he had only been seeking his ease, he would

have left the city, but he preferred, even at the cost of some discomfort,

to watch what was happening.

Then one morning he realized suddenly that he had not noticed any ants. He

looked around carefully, but he could not see any of their scouts. He

dropped a bit of food on the floor, then went away about some other

business for a few minutes. When he returned to the scene of his

experiment, the food lay there without an ant upon it. Curious, realizing

that something had happened, he went outside. He turned over a clod of

dirt, and no ants swarmed from their holes. He hunted carefully. Here and

there he discovered a few stragglers wandering about aimlessly, but they

were so few that he could have counted them individually. He hunted still

further. He could find no dead bodies of ants. They had simply vanished.

Perhaps, if he had had the skill in their ways to dig down and find their

nests; he would have discovered that they were lying dead in their

billions. But again he could only wish that he knew more of their manner of

life and could carry on an investigation.

He never solved the mystery, but he had little doubt as to what had

happened. When any creature reached such climactic numbers and attained

such high concentration, a nemesis was likely to fall upon it. Possibly the

ants had exhausted the supplies of food which had led to this tremendous

increase of numbers. More likely, some disease had fallen upon them, and

wiped them out. In the next few days he smelled, or thought he smelled, a

faint all-pervading putrescence, as if from the decaying bodies of billions

of ants....

One evening shortly afterward, he sat reading, and after a while began to

feel hungry. He went to the kitchen, and rummaged in the refrigerator for

some cheese. Happening to glance at the electric clock, he was surprised to

see that the time was only nine-thirty-seven. He had thought it was later.

On his way back to the living-room he took a bite of the cheese, and

glanced at his wrist-watch. The watch-hands stood at ten-nine, and he knew

that he had set the watch by the clock within twenty-fopr hours.

"The old clock's going to pieces at last," he thought. "Not surprising!" He

remembered how the motion of its hands had startled him when he had first

returned to the house.

He sat down to read again. A high wind from the north with the heavy smell

of smoke in it blew so hard that it rattled the windows occasionally. By

now he was used to the smell of smoke, and did not think about it. At many

times he could not even get a good view because of the smoke of the burning

-forests. After a while he blinked his eyes a little, and stared more

intently at the page where the letters seemed to have grown strangely

indistinct. "This smoke must be making my eyes water," he thought. I don't

seem to see so well." But as he looked closer, it seemed that not only the

page before him but the whole room had grown dimmer. With a sudden start he

looked at the electric-light bulb in the bridge lamp beside him.

Then quickly, with a jumping heart, he was out of his chair and standing on

the front porch looking out over the broad stretches of the city below him.

The lights were still burning along the streets. The chains of yellow beads

still showed on the great bridge, and at the tops of the towers the red

lights were flashing. He looked more carefully. The lights seemed a little

dimmer than they should be, but he could be imagining that, or they might

be obscured by all the drifting smoke. He went back and sat in his chair

again and tried to read, forgetting about it-forgetting what he feared.

But he blinked-and again! Looking at the light beside him,- he was puzzled.

Then suddenly he remembered the clock! "Well," he thought, "it had to

come!"

His watch now showed ten-fifty-two. He went out to the kitchen, and saw

that the clock was at ten-fourteen. He calculated apprehensively. The

result was bad. As closely as he could remember, the clock had lost six

minutes in about threequarters of an hour.

The clock was run, he knew, by electrical impulses which were ordinarily

timed at sixty to the minute. Now they must be coming less often. An

electrical engineer would doubtless have found it an elementary matter to

calculate just how much less often. Ish could even have made an attempt at

the calculation himself, but he saw no use in it, and he felt suddenly

downcast. In any case, once the Power-and-Light system had started to go to

pieces, the rate of decline would undoubtedly be progressively faster.

Back in the living-room, he could scarcely doubt now that the light had

faded still more. Deep shadows seemed to have moved out from behind the

chairs in the comers of the room.

"The lights are going out. The lights of the world!" he thought, and he

felt like a child going alone into the dark. Princess lay dozing on the

floor. The fading of the lights could mean nothing to her, but she sensed

his nervousness and came up restlessly sniffing, whining a little.

He stood on the porch again. Minute by minute the long ch i of

street-lights grew less and less luminous, more and more yellow. The high

wind, he thought, must be helping, blowing down a power-line here,

weakening a switch connection there. The fire too was sweeping across the

forested ridges unchecked by men, burning power-lines, perhaps, even

power-houses.

After a while the lights seemed to fade no further, but to remain at a

constant dimness. He went in again, and pulling another bridge-lamp to the

side of his chair, he was able to read comfortably with two lights instead

of one. Princess lay down again to doze. By now it was late, but he did not

want to go to sleep. He felt as if he were sitting up by the deathbed of

his most treasured and oldest friend. He remembered those great words "Let

there be light, and there was light!" This seemed the other end of that

story.

After a while he went to look at the clock again, and saw that it had

stopped with the hands symmetrically upward-at eleven-five.

His watch showed him that by now it was well after mid7 night. The lights

might still continue many hours, or even might burn dimly for days. Yet he

did not want to go to bed.

He tried to read again, but finally slipped off to sleep in the easy-chair

where he was sitting.

*With Power-and-Light it was all so carefully contrived that even in the

disaster there was no need for adjustment. The men fell sick, but the

generators still sent out along the wires their finely timed pulsations.

So, when the brief agony of mankind was ended, the lights still burned.*

*So it continued through the weeks. If a wire broke and cut out a whole

town from the flow of power, the system adjusted before that wire had had

time to fall to the ground. If a power-house failed, just as quickly the

other power-houses in the system stretching across hundreds of miles took

up the stack, and sent out more power to fulfill the need.*

*Yet in any system, as in a chain or a road, there is always a weakest

link. (That is the fatal flaw of all systems.) The water would continue to

flow; the great generators could spin upon their oil-bathed bearings for

years. But the flaw lay in the governors which controlled the generators.

No one had ever bothered to make them wholly automatic. Once every ten days

they were inspected for oil; once a month, perhaps, there was need to add

oil to them. After two months without care the oil supplies grew low, and

one by one, as the weeks passed, the governors began to go out of action.

When one failed, automatically the great water-nozzle changed angle and the

water flowed through without touching the wheel. Then the generator ceased

revolving, and sent out no more power. As generator after generator was

thus cut out of the system, the strain upon the few remaining ones became

greater and greater and the decline of the system became cumulative. *

When he awoke, he noticed that the lights had faded still more. The

filaments in the electric lamps were only an orange-red now. He could look

at them without hurting his eyes. Now, although he had not turned off any

of the lamps, the room was in half-darkness.

"The lights are going out! The lights are going out!" How often, in how

many centuries had those words been saidsometimes in matter-offact tones,

sometimes in panic-now literally, now as symbol? How much light had meant

in all the, story of Man! Light of the world! Light of life! Light of

knowledge!

A deep shiver shook him, but he stilled his panic. After all, he thought,

the great system of Power-and-Light had held up for an amazingly long time,

all its automatic processes functioning though the men were gone. He

thought clear back to that first day when he had come down out of the

mountains not yet even knowing what had happened. Then he had passed the

power-house, and felt the reassurance that everything must be normal

because he saw the water pouring out from the tailraces and heard the dim

continuous hum of the generators. He felt again a curious touch of local

pride in thinking of it. Perhaps no system had lasted so long. These ntight

well be the last electric lights to be left burning in the world, and when

they faded, the lights would be out for a long, long time.

No longer sleepy, he sat there, feeling that he should not go to sleep,

wishing at least that the end would come quickly and with dignity and not

be dragged out too long. Again, he felt the light fading, and he thought,

'This is the end!" But still it lingered, the filaments now only a

cherry-red.

And then again they faded. As a sled on a hillside, slowly first, then

gaining momentum. Just for a moment, he thought (or imagined), they flared

more brightly-and then they were gone.

Princess stirred in her sleep, then suddenly barked the halfbark of a

dream. Was it a death knell?

He went outside. "Perhaps," he thought, "that was just the failure of some

local line." But he was really sure that it had not been. He peered through

the darkness, all the thicker for the smoke that was heavy in the air,

changing the moon into an orange ball. He could see no light-not along the

streets, nor anywhere on the bridge. This, then, was the end. "Let there be

*no* light, and *there was no light!*"

"No use being melodramatic" he thought. Going inside, he stumbled around

until he had found the drawer where his mother kept candles. Putting one

into a candlestick, he sat again by its feeble but steady and continuing

light. Nevertheless he continued to feel a little shaken.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 6*

The fading out of the lights had a strangely severe effect upon Ish. Even

in the full daylight, he seemed to feel those shadows creeping in from the

edges toward him. The Dark Ages were closing in.

He found himself hoarding matches and flashlights and candles, piling them

up in spite of himself, as a psychological protection.

Yet actually, in a little while, he discovered that the absence of electric

light was not really as important to him as the absence of electric power,

particularly of refrigeration. The ice-box was dead now, and his food

spoiled. In the deepfi-eeze units the fresh meat, and butter, and heads of

lettuce soon relapsed into mere smelling masses of corruption.

Now came the change of the season. He was completely lost as to the passage

of the weeks and months, but with the geographer Is eye he could still tell

something about the time of year from the look of things. Now he guessed it

must be October, and the first rain came to confirm him; from the way it

settled down, it seemed likely to last longer than one expected of the

first storm.

He stayed at home, managing to amuse himself fairly well. He played his

accordion. He browsed through several books -ones he had always meant to

read and now was undoubtedly going to have time to do so. Now and then he

looked out at the fine drifting rain and the clouds low over the tops of

the houses.

The next day he went out to see what was happening, still thinking of the

drama he was prepared to watch. Not so much had occurred, it seemed at

first. But after a while he began to notice things. On San Lupo Drive a

drain-pipe had plugged with the washing in of all the unswept leaves that

lay in the gutter. After the drain-pipe had plugged, the water had swirled

across the street to the downhill side and flooded over the curb. The

stream of water had worked its way across the tangle of tall grass which

had been the Harts' lawn, and seeped under the door. Their floors and rugs

must be soaked, and slimy with mud. Below the house the water had broken

out, and run through the rose-garden, leaving a small gully behind it, at

last disappearing into the drainage of a storm-sewer on the street below.

It was just a little matter, and yet it showed what must be happening all

over the country.

Men had built roads and drains and walls and thousands of other

obstructions to the natural flow of water. These could survive and function

only because men were constantly at hand to repair and clean the thousands

of little breaks and blockages which showed up at every change of the

weather. Ish himself could have cleaned out that clogged drain in two

minutes by merely scraping the leaves back from the grating where they had

plugged it. But he saw no point to stretching out his hand. There were

thousands, millions, of spots where the same thing must be happening. The

roads and the drains and the walls had been constructed only for man's

conveWence, and now that man was gone there was no need of them. The water

might just as well follow its natural courses, and cut back through the

rose-garden. Soaked and muddy, the Harts' rugs would begin to rot where

they lay. No matter! To think of that as something bad was merely to think

in terms of what had once been and no longer existed.

As he walked back home, he suddenly came upon a large black billy-goat

cahnly eating the hedge which Mr. Osmer used to clip so carefully. Ish

looked at the billy-goat in amusement and in some curiosity, wondering

where he could have come from. (No one kept goats anywhere near such a

respectable sum as San Lupo.) The goat desisted from eating the hedge, and

looked at Ish. Perhaps, thought Ish, the animal was looking also at the man

in amusement and some curiosity. Men now had rarity-value. Having looked

for a few seconds, as if it irtight be equal to equal, the goat again

returned to the more profitable business of eating the long shoots which

had grown out from the hedge. Doubtless they were very succulent.

Princess suddenly returned from some expedition of her own, and flew at the

strange animal in a frenzy of barking. The goat put down his horns and made

a sudden dash at the dog. Princess, who seldom had much stomach for a

fight, turned quickly with her rabbit-like dodge, and raced back to her

man. The goat resumed eating.

A few minutes later Ish saw the goat walking calmly along the sidewalk, as

if he owned it and all of San Lupo Drive.

"Well, why not?" thought Ish. "Perhaps he does. This is certainly a New

Deal."

During this time, when the ram kept lurn mostly indoors, his thoughts

turned a little toward religion, as they had when he walked through the

Cathedral. This time he found a large annotated Bible on his father's

bookshelves, and tried browsing here and there in it.

The Gospels seemed strangely unsatisfying, probably because they dealt

mostly with the problems of a man involved in the social group. "Render

unto Caesar..." was a strangely unprofitable text when there was no more

Caesar, and not even a Collector of Internal Revenue.

"Sell whatever thou hast, and give to the poor... As ye would that men

should do unto you ... Love thy neighbor as thyself"--all these presupposed

a functioning society of many people. As the world now was, a Pharisee or

Sadducee might perhaps still follow the set rites of formalized religion,

but the very humanity of the teachings of Jesus rendered them obsolete.

Turning back to the Old Testament, he began *Ecclesiastes,* and found

himself suddenly more at home. The old fellow "The Preacher"--Koheleth, as

the notes called him, whoever he might have been--had a curious way of

striking the naturalistic note, of sensing the problem of the individual

against the universe. Sometimes it was almost as if he had imagined what

Ish was now experiencing: "And if the tree fall toward the south, or toward

the north, in the place where the tree falleth, there it shall be." Ish

thought of that tree in Oklahoma which had fallen to block Highway 66. And

again he read, "Two are better than one ... for if they fall, the one win

lift up his fellow, but woe unto him that is alone when he falleth." And

Ish thought of the great fear that had been upon him when he was left

alone, and he had felt all too vividly that there would be none,to help him

up, if he fell. He read through, marveling at the clear-eyed naturalistic

acceptance of the universe. There was even a line, "Surely the serpent will

bite without enchantment."

He came to the end of the last chapter, and his eyes fell to the lines

which began on the lower part of the page. "The song of songs, which is

Solomon's." He read, "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy

love is better than wine."

Ish stirred uneasily. In all these long months he had rarely had such

feelings. Now again he realized that, more than he thought from day to day,

the shock of the whole catastrophe had affected him. It was all like some

old story of enchantment in which a king sat and watched life pass by,

unable to mingle with it. Other men had done differently. Even those who

had drunk themselves to death had, in a sense, been partaking of life. But

he himself, in observing what happened, had merely been rejecting life.

What made life anyway? Many people had asked that question-even Koheleth,

the preacher, was far from the first. And each had come up with a different

answer, except those who admitted that no answer could be found.

Here was he, Isherwood Williams, a strange mingling of realities and

fantasies and pressures and reactions, and there all outside was the vast

empty city with misty rain falling upon the long empty streets, and the

twilight now beginning to deepen. Between the two, him and everything

outside him, there lay some kind of.strange bond; as one changed, so the

other changed also.

It was as if there were a vast equation with many terms on each side, and

yet only two great unknowns. He was on one side; x, perhaps, you could call

him; and on the other side was y--everything which was called the world. And

two sides of the equation always were trying to keep more or less in

balance and never quite managed it. Perhaps the real balance only came with

death. (Perhaps that was what Koheleth in his fine disillusioned mind was

thinking when he wrote "The living know that they shall die; but the dead

know not anything.") But, this side of death, the two halves of the

equation tried always to be in balance. If the x side changed and he Ish

felt within him the pressure of some gland or if he suffered shock or if

there was even something so simple as that he grew bored, then he did

something, and that changed the other side of the equation, if only a

little, and then there was again a temporary balance. But if on the other

hand, the world outside changed, if there was a catastrophe wiping out the

human race, or if merely it should stop raining, then the x side, being

Ish, would also have to change, and that would mean more action, and then

there would be again a temporary balance.

And who could say whether in the long run one side or the other side of the

equation began more of the actions?

Then, before he really thought what he was doing, he had risen to his feet,

and on second thought he knew that he had done so because again a feeling

of desire had stirred within him. The equation had got out of balance, and

he had risen restlessly to set it right again, and already he was affecting

the world because Princess had leaped up at his rising and was wandering

about the room. Yet at the same time he heard the rain beat a little harder

against the window. Then he looked up at it to see what was happening. And

so the world had also pressed in upon him and caused him to do something.

And after that he set out to get himself some supper.

*The almost complete removal of man, though in some ways an unprecedented

earthly catastrophe, had not in the slightest affected the earth's relation

to the sun, or the sizes and locations of the oceans and continents, or any

other factor influencing the weather. Therefore, the first autumn storm

which swept down from the Aleutians upon the coast of California was

ordinary and conventional. Its moisture extinguished the forest-fires; its

raindrops washed fi-om the atmosphere the particles of smoke and dust.

Behind it a brisk wind swept down cool and crystal-clear and air from the

northwest. The temperature dropped sharply. *

Ish stirred in his sleep, and gradually came to consciousness. He was cold.

"The other side has changed," he thought, and pulled up another blanket. He

grew warm. "O prince's daughter!" he thought dreamily, "Thy breasts are

like two..." And he drifted to sleep.

In the morning the house was chilly. He wore a sweater as he got himself

his breakfast. He considered building a fire in the fireplace, but the

cooler weather had also made him feel more active, and so he thought that

he would not stay indoors much that day.

After breakfast he stood on the front porch to drink in the view. As always

after one of these storms, the air was clear. The wind had died down. The

red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, miles away, stood against the blue

sky, as if close enough to touch. He turned a little toward the north to

look at the peak of Tamalpais, and suddenly started. Between him and the

mountain, on this side of the Bay, a thin column of smoke rose straight up

through the calm air, a slight wisp, the kind of smoke-column that should

come from a.small fire, particularly from one burning in a fireplace and

ascending through a chimney. It might, he realized, have been rising there

a hundred times before when he had looked out, but in the smoky and misty

atmosphere he would not have noticed it. Now it was like a signpost.

Of course it might be a fire burning from some natural cause without any

human being in its vicinity. He had investigated many smokes like that with

no results. But that was not so likely now, because the rain would have

smothered such fires.

In any case it could not be more than a couple of miles off, and his first

thought was to jump into the station-wagon and investigate. That would

cause no more harm than the loss of a few minutes for which he had no

particular use anyway. But something stopped him. His attempts to establish

human contact had not been rewarding. That old shyness rose up within him,

as it had sometimes in the old days when the thought of attending a dance

would put him into a sweat. He began to temporize, just as he used to do

when he said that he had a great deal of work to do and so buried himself

in a book instead of going to the dance.

Did Crusoe really want to be rescued from his desert island where he was

lord of all that he surveyed? That was a question that people had asked.

But even if Crusoe had been the kind of man who wanted to escape, to renew

contacts with other people, that would not mean that he himself, Ish, was

such a person. Perhaps he would cherish his island. Basically, perhaps, he

feared human entanglements.

Almost in panic, as if fleeing from a temptress, he called Princess, got

into the car, and drove off in the opposite direction.

He spent most of the day wandering restlessly through the hills. At times

he observed what the rain had done to the roads. By now there was no longer

that hard and fast line between road and what was not road. Leaves had

dropped from the cold of the autumn and the high winds. Little dead

branches had blown off, and fallen on the pavement. Here and there a

washing stream of water had left a delta-like deposit of dirt and gravel.

Once, very far off, he heard-or thought he heard-the bay of a pack of dogs.

But he did not see them, and before the end of the afternoon he was back

home again.

When he looked out toward the mountain, he could see no smoke against the

sky. He had a certain sense of relief, and yet an even stronger sense of

disappointment, now that he had a chance to think it over.

That was the way. When the opportunity was at your hand, you did not dare

to seize it. When the opportunity was lost, it became precious. The other

side of the equation had changed, and he had adjusted by running away. Of

course, he might see the smoke again the next morning, but then again he

might not. Perhaps that human being, whoever it was, had merely been

passing through that way, and could never be found again.

He felt a quick rebound of excitement, at opportunity regranted, when he

looked out in the early darkness after supper, and suddenly saw a faint but

unmistakable light. He hesitated no longer. Now, instead of temporizing, he

called Princess, got into the car, and drove in that direction.

It was a slow process. His seeing the light must mean merely that the

windows of that house happened to face his porch; probably he could not

have seen it at all before the storm had blown down most of the leaves. As

soon as he left the house, he could no longer see the light. He drove back

and forth along the streets for half an hour, finally relocated it, drove

slowly down the right street and past the proper house. The shades had been

pulled, but there was light shining through, even illun-finating the street

a little. It was bright, probably from a gasoline lamp.

He brought the car to a stop on the opposite side of the street, and waited

a moment. Apparently, whoever was inside the house had not heard the motor.

For a moment still he hesitated, almost ready now to put the car into gear

again and slide off undiscovered. Yet, from some deeper drive within him,

he leaned forward, and half opened the car door as if to get out. Suddenly

Princess leaped by him, and ran toward the house with a fury of barking.

She must have scented whoever was there. With a sudden curse, he got out,

and started - to walk after her. She had tipped his hand, this time, for

certain. He hesitated again, suddenly realizing he was unarmed. Yet to

advance against the house carrying a gun was not a good opening. Without

much thought he reached back into the car, and grabbed his old hammer.

Holding it in his hand, he advanced after the dog. In the window of the

house he saw a shadow move.

When he had gained the sidewalk, the house-door opened a few inches, and

suddenly the beam of a flashlight caught him. He could see nothing beyond

it. He stopped, waiting for what the other person would have to say.

Princess scuttled back, suddenly silent. Ish had the uncomfortable feeling

that whoever was keeping him covered with the flashlight had him covered

also with a gun held in the other hand. With the light in his eyes, he was

blinded. This had been a crazy thing to do, he thought; an approach under

cover of darkness always looked suspicious, and made people nervous. At

least he was glad that he had shaved that morning, and that his clothes

looked moderately clean.

There was a long pause. He stood waiting for the sharply barked

question-the inevitable, if slightly ridiculous, "Who are you?" or else for

that curt order, "Put up your hands!" That was why he had a sudden gasp of

surprise when a woman's voice came with an affirmation: "That's a beautiful

dog!"

There was a momentary silence, the memory of the voice in his ears was

gentle and low, with a touch of some soft accent in it. At the sound he

felt warm feelings rise up within him.

Now the light fell from his eyes, illuminating a path ahead of him, and

Princess bounded up through the beam of light, her tail wagging in joy. The

door of the house moved open wide, and against the dim light behind her, he

saw a woman on her knees patting the dog. He walked up toward her, still

with the hammer dangling ridiculously but comfortably from his hand.

Then Princess, in a sudden flurry of excitement, burst away and went

tearing into the house. The woman leaped up with an exclamation,

half-screamed, half-laughed, and also dashed in. "My God, she must have a

cat!" thought Ish, and rushed after her.

But when he arrived in the living-room, Princess was merely dashing around

the table and smelling at the chairs and the woman was standing erect

beside a gasoline lamp sheltering it against being overthrown by the

excited dog.

She was above middle height, brunette, not very young--no mere girl,

certainly, but a fully developed woman.

She glanced at the antics of the scampering dog and laughed, and the sound

of laughter was like something remembered from Paradise long ago. She

turned to him, and he saw the flash of white teeth in the dark face. Then

suddenly a barrier burst within him, and he laughed joyously.

After a moment she spoke again, neither questioning nor demanding. "It's

good to see someone." This time Ish replied, but he could think of nothing

better than an apology for the ridiculous hammer which still dangled from

his hand. "Pardon me for bringing this thing in," he said, and set it down

on the floor upon its head with the handle sticking stiffly into the air.

"Don't worry," she said, "I understand. I went through it too--having to

have something around to make you feel comfortable. Like a pocket-piece or

a rabbit-foot, you remember. We're still about the same as we used to be,

all of us."

After the sudden release of the laughter, he was trembling. All his body

seemed growing weak. He felt, almost physically, more barriers

breaking--those necessary barriers of defense, built up through the months

of loneliness and desperation. He must touch another human being, and he

put forward his hand in the old conventional gesture of the handshake. She

took it, and doubtless as she noticed his trembling, she drew him toward a

chair and almost pushed him into it. As he sat down, she patted his

shoulder lightly.

She spoke again, once more neither questioning nor commanding: "I'll get

you something to eat."

He did not protest, though he had just eaten heartily. But he knew that

behind her quiet affirmation lay something more than any call of the body

for food. There was need now for the symbolic eating together, that first

common bond of human beings--the sitting at the same table, the sharing of

the bread and salt.

Now they were sitting opposite each other. They ate a little, more in

symbol than in reality. There was fresh bread. "I made it myself," she

said, "but it's getting hard to find flour now that's got no weevils in

it." There was no butter, but honey and jam for the bread, and a bottle of

red wine.

And now, like a child, he began to talk. This was nothing like that time

when he had sat with Nfilt and Ann on Riverside Drive. Then the barriers

had still been up. Now, for the first time, he talked of all those days. He

showed even the little scar of the fangs on his hand and the larger scars

where he had slashed himself to apply the suction-pump. He told of his fear

and of his flight and of the Great Loneliness that he had never quite dared

face or imagine. And as he talked, she often said, "Yes, I know. Yes, I

remember that, too. Tell me more."

As for her, she had seen the catastrophe itself. She had faced more than he

had, and yet he could see that she had come through better than he. She

talked little, seeming to have no need, but she drew him on.

As he talked with her, he knew now at last that this, at least as far as he

was concerned, was no mere casual meeting--or passing moment. In this lay

all the future. Since the disaster he had seen men and women here and

there, and no one before had ever held him. Perhaps time had healed him.

More likely, she herself was different.

Yet she was a woman. As the minutes slipped by, he sensed that basic

reality more and more, with an intensity that made him tremble. As between

man and man the breaking of bread was the reality; the shared table, all

the symbol needed. But as between man and woman there must be still more,

in reality and in symbol, a further sharing.

They realized suddenly that neither knew the other's name although each had

been calling the dog Princess.

"Isherwood," he said. "That was my mother's maiden name and so she stuck it

on me. Bad, wasn't it? Everybody called me 'Ish.'"

"I'm Em!" she said. "Emma, that is, of course. Ish and Em! We won't get

very far writing poetry about that combination!" And she laughed. And they

laughed together.

Laughter--that was another sharing! And yet it was not the final one. There

were ways these things were done. He had known men who could do them, had

seen them at work. But he, Ish, was not the right kind. All those qualities

which had permitted him to be by himself and survive through the bad days,

alone--all those qualities now came up to work against him. And he sensed

too, very deeply, that they would be wrong. The old methods had worked in

the days when there were girls in every cocktail-bar, looking for

adventure. But now such methods were not right, he knew, and knew deeply--at

this time, when the vast city stretched away empty in all directions

outside of the windows and all the ways of the world had vanished and this

woman had lived through all the catastrophe and the fear and the loneliness

and now had come out on the other side, still with courage in her eyes, and

affirmation, and laughter.

For a wild moment he had an idea that they might say some kind of marriage

vows. Quakers could marry themselves. Why couldn't others? They could stand

up together, and face toward the east where the morning sun would rise. And

then he sensed that the mere babbling of words was in itself much more

dishonest even than a straightforward feeling for the knee under the table.

He realized that he had been silent for what might have been a full minute.

She was looking across at him with level calm eyes, and he knew that she

read his thoughts.

In his embarrassment he rose suddenly to his feet, upsetting the chair as

he got up. Then the table between them had ceased to be a symbol joining

them together and now held them apart. He stepped from behind it, and

across toward her as she rose up too. And then there was the softness of

her body against his.

*O Song of Songs! Thine eyes, my love, are gentle, and the fullness of thy

lips is soft andfirm. Thy neck is ivory, and the smoothness of thy

shoulders like warm ivory. The softness of thy breasts against me is like

fine wool. Thy thighs are firm and strong like the cedars. O Song of Songs!

*

She had gone now, into the inner room. He sat, still with breath and heart

quick, tense and waiting. He had only one fear now. In a world where there

were no doctors and even no other women, how could anyone risk the chance?

But she had gone. He realized that she, too, in her great affirmation,

would consider this also and care for it.

*O Song of Songs. My love, thy bed is fragrant as boughs of the pine tree,

and thy body is warm. Thou art Ashtoreth. Thou art Aphrodite, that keepest

the gate of Love. Now my strength is upon me. Now the rivers are pent up.

Now is my hour. Oh receive me in thine infinitude. *

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 7*

He lay quietly awake after she slept beside him, and his thoughts rushed by

him so fast that he could not stop them long enough to get to sleep. That

was what she had said before, earlier in the evening--no matter what

happened to the world, it did not change the person, and he remained what

he had been. Yes, that was the way! lbough so much had happened, and even

though he might be deeply moved by that great experience, yet still he was

the observer--the man who sat by the side, watching what happened, never

quite losing himself in the experience. The strangeness! In the old world

it might well never have happened. Out of destruction had come, for him,

love.

He slept. When he woke, it was daylight, and she was gone. He looked around

the room fearfully. Yes, it was really a shabby little room, and he

suddenly had a fear that perhaps all this seemingly great experience of

love was, after all, only something which in the old days would have been

no more than a pick-up of a restless waitress and a grimy room in a cheap

hotel. And she--she was no goddess, no hamadryad glimpsed whitely in the

dusk! Except at the moment of desire, she would never be Ashtoreth or

Aphrodite. He trembled a little to think of how she might look in the

morning light. She was older than he; perhaps he was merely mixing her in

some vague kind of mother-image. "Oh, don't worry," he thought, putting it

into words, "there never has been perfection yet, and it certainly isn't

going to start now for me." Then he remembered how she had first spoken,

not in question or command, but merely in affirmation. Yes, that was the

way it ought to be. Take what was good in a situation, not worrying about

what might not be there.

He got up and dressed. As he dressed, he sniffed the aroma of coffee.

Coffee! That was a kind of modern symbol, too.

She had the table set in the breakfast-nook when he came out, as any

commuter's wife might have done. He looked at her almost bashfully. He saw

again, more clearly by morning light, the wide-set black eyes in the dark

face, the full ripe lips, the swelling curve of the breasts beneath a

light-green smock.

He did not offer to kiss her, and she did not seem to expect it. But they

smiled back and forth, one at the other. "Where's Princess?" he said. "I

put her out for her run."

"Good--And it's going to be a good day, too, I think."

"Yes, looks like it. Sorry there are no eggs."

"No matter. What is it? Bacon, I see."

"Yes.

They were little words, meaning nothing, yet there was a great joy to say

them. A greater joy, perhaps, saying the little things than saying

something much greater. A whole contentment came over him. This was no

affair of the rented room. His luck was in! He looked across into her level

eyes, and felt new security and courage rise up within him! This would

endure!

They moved back, later that day, to the house on San Lupo Drive, chiefly

because he seemed to have more possessionsbooks, especially-than she did.

It was less trouble to move to the books than to move the books to them.

The days went more swiftly and more comfortably after that. There were many

ways of sharing. "What was it?" he thought. "'A friend doubles joys and

cuts griefs in half'?"

She never talked about herself. Once or twice he tried to draw her out with

questions, thinking that she might need to tell things. But she did not

respond easily, and he decided that she had already made her adjustment in

her own way. She had drawn the veil across the view toward the past; now

she looked forward only

Yet she made no apparent attempt at secrecy. He learned from casual remarks

that she had been married (happily, he was sure), and had had two small

children. She had gone to high school but not to college; her grammar

lapsed occasionally. Her soft accent, which he had noticed when she first

spoke, had perhaps the touch of Kentucky or Tennessee in it.

But she never mentioned having lived anywhere except in California.

Her social status must have been, Ish judged, somewhat lower than his. But

there was nothing more ridiculous to contemplate, now, than all that

business of social classes.

"Amazing, how little everything Re that matters now!" And the days slid by

easily.

One morning, finding that they needed some supplies, he went down to start

the car. He put his thumb on the smrter button. There was a sudden click,

nothing more. He pressed it again, and it clicked. That was all.

He heard no sudden comforting whir as the motor took over, no reassuring

little bangs as the cold cylinders began to fire. Panic fell upon him

again. He pressed the button once more, and still once more, and every time

came only the little click. "Battery gone!" he thought.

He got out, raised the hood of the car, and stared hopelessly at the

orderly but complex array of wires and gadgets. It was too much for him. He

had a sudden hopeless feeling within him; he went back to the house.

"The car won't start," he said. "Battery gone, or something!" He knew that

his face must be even more woebegone than his voice. That was why he could

hardly believe it, when she laughed. "There's no place we have to go so

badly as all that," she said. "To look at you, you'd think that things had

gone to pieces!"

Then he laughed too. It made all the difference in the world whether you

had that other to cut the grief in half, and the trouble suddenly seemed

tiny. A car was convenient when you wanted to go to the stores and load up

with some more supplies. But you could live just as well without a car. She

was right-they had really no place that they needed so badly to go!

He had imagined a desperate day, tying to find a new car or to fix up the

old one. As it was, they made it a sport, even though it did take them most

of the morning before they located another one. Most of the cars had no

keys in them, and while he might have shorted a wire somewhere, they agreed

that it would be an inconvenience to have to drive a car without a key. And

when they found one with a key in it, the battery, unused now for several

months, would not work. At last they found one that had a key in it, and

was parked on a hill. The battery was too weak to turn the engine over, but

it would burn the lights faintly, and Ish judged that it would send out

enough of a current to fire the spark-plugs.

They got the car rolling downhill, and then after a minute the cylinders

began to bang and putter and backfire. Ish and Em laughed together happily

at the adventure of it. At last the gasoline worked up through the

feed-pipes, and the engine warmed, and began to run smoothly. Now they

laughed in triumph, and went speeding at sixty miles an hour down the empty

boulevard, and Em leaned over and kissed him. And suddenly, queer as it

seemed, Ish realized that he had never felt so happy in his life.

This car was not such a good one as the station-wagon. Because of this,

they used it merely to make some exploration through the warehouse

district, checking up in the classified telephone book to locate dealers in

batteries. At last they forced the entrance to the proper room and found

dozens of batteries with the acid not yet in them. There were also supplies

of acid, and although neither of them was mechanically minded, they made

the experiment of pouring the acid into a battery of the right size. They

took it back, and put it into the station-wagon. It worked perfectly, the

first time.

As at last the motor of the station-wagon hummed tunefully, responding to

the pressure of his foot on the throttle, Ish thought that on that day he

had met, and faced, two problems. First, he had seen that he could do a

great deal toward keeping a car running for a long time. But of even

greater importance, he had faced the possibility that there would come a

time when there would no longer be any cars, and yet still he could live

happily and without fear.

The next day, indeed, the new battery in the station-wagon was dead again.

Either it was defective or he had made some mistake in installing it. This

time, however, he was in no panic. In fact he did not even bother to do

anything about it for a couple, of days. Then they repeated the process.

Either by luck or by greater care, they had better success, and the battery

continued to work.

*Sleek with lacquer, shining with chromium, their motors machined to the

thousandth of the inch, their commutators accurate as watches, they had

been the pride and the symbol of civilization.*

*Now, they were locked ingloriously in garages, or stood in the lots, or

were parked at the curb. The dead leaves dropped, the blowing dust settled.

The rains fell, and spotted the dust, and made the leaves stick more

tightly and then more dust and more leavesfell. The windshields were so

thickly coated that you could scarcely see through them now.*

*More deeply, they changed little. The rust ate here and there, but on the

grease-smeared surfaces it could not work rapidly. Unused, the coils and

the timers, the carburetors and the spark-plugs, all remained as good as

ever.*

*In the batteries the slow processes of chemistry worked day and night,

breaking down, neutralizing. A few months, and the unused batteries were

dead. But as long as the battery and acid were kept separate, neither

deteriorated, and it would always be a small matter to add the acid and

start out again with a new battery; the batteries were not the weakest

link.*

*More likely it was the tires. In the rubber the processes of decay worked

slowly. The tires would last a year, five years. But nevertheless, the

weakness worked in them. The air leaked from the tires, and after the car

had stood on the flat tires for a while, they were no longer of any use.

Even in the warehouses, decay worked in the rubber. The stored tires would

have ten years, and still some life. Twenty years they would last, perhaps

even more. Quite likely the roads, themselves, would be broken and men

forget how to drive cars and lose the desire for driving them before the

cars themselves were rendered undrivable. *

Her head rested in the crook of his arm, and he looked down upon the black

liquid eyes. They lay on the davenport in the living-room. Her face looked

darker than ever now in the twilight.

There was one question, he knew, that they had not yet faced, and now she

brought it forward.

"That would be fine!" she said.

"I don't know."

"Yes, it would."

"I don't like it."

"You mean you don't like it about me?".

"Yes. It's dangerous. There'd be no one else but me, and I wouldn't be any

use."

"But you can read--all the books."

"Books!" he laughed a little as he spoke. *"The Practical Midwife? The

Pathology of Parturition?* I don't think I'd like to face it, even if you

would."

"But, yet, you really could find some books and read them. That would be a

lot of use. And I wouldn't really need so much help." She paused a moment:

"I've been through it twice before, you know. It wasn't bad."

"Maybe not. But it might be different this time without hospitals and

doctors and all that. And just why, why do you think so much about it?"

"Biology, don't they call it, or something like that? I guess it's

natural."

"Do you think life must go on, we have a duty to the future, all that?"

She paused a minute. He could tell that she was thinking, and thinking was

not the best thing that she did; she reacted at deeper levels than those of

mere thought.

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "I don't know whether life needs to go on.

Why should it? Just as likely I'm selfish. I want a baby for myself. I

mean, oh, I don't talk this sort of thing well. I'd like to be kissed,

though." He did it.

"I wish I could talk," she said. "I wish I could tell what it is I think

about it."

Then she stretched her arm out, and took a match from the box on the table.

She smoked, more than he did, and he expected her to take a cigarette also.

But she did not. It was a big kitchen-match, the kind she liked. She turned

it between thumb and finger, saying nothing. Then she scratched it against

the box.

The matchhead spurted into a flare. Then the fierceness faded out, and the

wood of the match-shank burned quietly in yellow flame. Suddenly she blew

it out.

Vaguely he knew that she, who did not find words easily, had tried--perhaps

half unconsciously--to act out something that she could not say. Slowly he

thought that he understood. The match lived, not when it lay in the box,

but merely when it burned--and it could not burn forever. So too with men

and women. Not by denying life was life lived.

He thought then of his old fear during the first days and of the time when

he had overthrown it, when he had unlashed the motorcycle from the

tail-gate of the station-wagon in the desert and tossed it to one side. He

remembered the wild feeling of exaltation which had come when he had

offered defiance to death and all the powers of darkness. He felt her body

stir gently in his arms. Yes, he thought humbly, that strong courage was

his only at great moments--with her it was part of daily life.

"All right," he said, "I suppose you're right. I'll read the books."

"You know," she said, "I might need a little more help than that!"

Her body was close and warm against him. Still he held back, feeling all

the loneliness and the emptiness and the terror. Who was *he* to set

mankind again on the long and uncertain road to the future? But it was only

for a moment. Then her courage and the confidence of her courage flowed out

from her to him. "Yes," he thought, "she will be the mother of nations!

Without courage there is nothing!"

And then suddenly he was conscious again of her body, and his strength came

upon him.

*To thee be the glory, because the love of life was brighter before thy

face than the fear of death was dark. Thou art Demeter and Hertha and Isis;

Cybele of the Lions, and the Mountain-Mother. From thy daughters shall

spring tribes; and from thy grandsons, nations! Thy name is The Mother, and

they shall call thee blessed.*

*There will be laughter and song again. Maidens will walk in the meadows;

young men, leap by the brooks. Their children's children shall be again as

the pine trees of the mountainside. They shall call thee blessed, because

in a dark time thy look was toward the light. *

While they were still uncertain, Em looked out one morning and said, "See,

some rats!"

He looked. Sure enough, two rats were nosing their way along the base of

the hedge, foraging about or merely investigating. Em pointed out the rats

to Princess through the window, and then opened the door. But being a dog

who gave tongue to tell the hunter where the chase was leading, she leaped

out baying, and the rats vanished before she was anywhere near them.

That afternoon they saw more rats at several times, one place and another,

near the house, in the street, or running in the gardens.

Next morning the wave had engulfed them. Rats were everywhere. These were

merely ordinary-looking rats, no larger or smaller than rats were expected

to be, not particularly fat or particularly lean-just rats. Ish thought of

the way the ants had been some time ago, and felt a cold shiver run through

him.

The only thing to do was to make an investigation, and thus render the rats

less horrible, because when you knew sometlung about the situation, you saw

the interest that lay in it.

In the station-wagon they drove about here and there, often crushing some

rat which decided to dash across the street, just ahead of their fires. At

first they shuddered a little at the soft squash, and looked at each other,

but before long it had become so common that they thought nothing about it.

The area which the rats were occupying was roughly the city, although they

spread outward from the built-up area, covering somewhat larger an area

than the ants had done. -

What had happened, in general, was clear enough. Ish remembered some kind

of statistics which declared that the number of rats in a city was

generally about equal to the number of people.

"Well," he explained to Em, "you start then with, say, a million rats, half

of them being does or bitches or whatever you call lady rats. Some of the

stores and warehouses are rat-proof, but still there has been for all this

tune what you can call an unlimited supply of food."

"Then how many rats should there be now?"

"I can't do that problem in my head. I'll try later."

That evening at home he sat down to it as a mathematical problem. With the

aid of his father's encyclopedia he determined that rats had approximately

one litter a month, with an average of about ten young. That is, one month

of uninterrupted breeding might have produced about a population of ten

million rats in this given area. These young females, in turn, would begin

to breed before they reached the age of two months. There must be some

casualties, of course, and he had no way of determining just how many of

the rats would live to maturity But, c:ertainly the increase must be

prodigious under the circumstances. His mathematics broke down.

But even if the rats should only be increasing at the rate of doubling

their numbers every month, an estimate which seemed ridiculously

conservative, there should by this time be already somewhere in the

neighborhood of fifty million. If they were increasing threefold each

month, an estimate which still seemed conservative, there would now be in

the area approximately one billion rats.

As he considered the problem, he saw no reason at all why. the rats, with

unlimited food, might not possibly quadruple their numbers every month. In

the Old Times man had been the only important natural enemy of the city

rats, and even man had had to maintain constant war against them to keep

their numbers under control. With man gone, their only enemies would have

been the small number of dogs whose instinct led them to catch rats, and

somewhat larger number of cats. But here a secondary result must have

influenced the situation in favor of the rats. As he had noticed, the

rat-catching dogs seemed to hold the ground alone without the help of any

cats. Probably the dogs had killed the cats as much as they had the rats,

and so had eliminated the chief control. And in the end, the dogs

themselves had probably been overwhelmed in the mere increase of numbers.

Now he no longer saw any dogs. It seemed unlikely that they had actually

been killed by the rats, although the rats may very well have cleaned out

many litters of puppies. Probably, the dogs had merely retreated before the

swarms of rats, and were still hanging around on the outskirts, now having

been driven from the city into the suburbs.

Whether there were a billion rats or only fifty million made very little

difference. There certainly were too many rats, and Ish and Em felt

themselves in a state of siege. They watched all the doors carefully.

Nevertheless, one rat appeared in the kitchen from some unknown quarter,

and they had a mad scurry as Ish pursued it with a broom. Cornered, it

leaped viciously at the broom-handle, and left teeth marks in the hard wood

before he was able to crush it against the floor.

After a few days, moreover, they began to see a kind of difference, both in

the appearance and in the behavior of the rats. Apparently, the supplies of

food, vast though they were, had at last begun to yield before the attack

of an ever-pyramiding number of rats. The rats now appeared thinner, and

they ran around even more feverishly in search of food. They began to

burrow in the ground. They dug up the tulip bulbs, first of all, seeming

particularly fond of them. Then they attacked the less palatable bulbs and

roots. They ran along the branches of the trees, apparently eating any

insects they could find or any remains of seeds or fruit. They even, at

last, began to gnaw the bark of young trees, like rabbits.

Ish parked the car as close to the house as he could now, and made a dash

for it, wearing high boots. But actually the rats never made any attempt at

an attack. Ish kept Princess in the house mostly, although the rats had

offered her no violence either.

Still driving about to investigate, Ish became more and more accustomed to

the soft squash beneath his tires. He began to feel as if he were

plastering the streets with a continuous line of crushed rats. In the angle

of two walls, as he drove slowly by, a small white object caught his

attention. Stopping the car and looking carefully, he saw that it was the

skull of some small dog. The long teeth, still shining white, indicated

that it had probably been a terrier. Apparently, the rats had cornered the

dog in the angle of the walls; or else, the dog ' fighting for its life,

had retreated there. Whether the rats had dared attack a strong and healthy

dog, Ish could not know. Perhaps it had suffered an accident or had been

chewed up in a fight with another dog. Perhaps it was old or sick. But

apparendy' for once, the swarm of rats had been too much even for the

ratter. Ish saw only a few of the larger bones; 4he rest had apparently

either been gnawed to pieces or dragged away. In the vicinity, he saw also

the skulls of several rats, indicating that the terrier had gone down

fighting. He tried to imagine the scene. The swarrning gray bodies

clambering all over the struggling dog, the dog unable to attack those

which hung to its back. Others must have slashed at the hamstrings like

wolves attacking an old bison-bull. Though the dog might kill a dozen or

fifty, in the end the mad, hunger-frenzied rodents must have gnawed through

the skin and tendons until the dog collapsed. Ish drove away from the spot

feeling definitely sober, and deciding that they must keep an even more

careful watch on Princess.

He remembered, hopefully, that the ants had vanished almost overnight, and

he kept expecting that something like that also might happen to the rats.

But there was no indication of it.

"Are the rats going to take over the world?" Em asked. "Now that men are

gone, are the rats going to be next?"

"Of course I don't know for sure," said Ish, "but I hardly think so.

They've got a head-start because they know how to use the food-supplies in

the city and because they breed fast. But once they get away from the city

they'll have to forage on their own, and the foxes and snakes and owls are

going to build up too because man is gone and because they'll have lots of

rats to feed on."

"I never thought of that!" she said. "You mean rats are kind of domestic

animals because people supply them food and kill off their enemies."

"More like parasites on man, I suppose really." And then, just, to be

saying something to keep her interest, he ran on: "And speaking of

parasites, of course rats have them too. Just like the ants! When anything

gets too numerous it's likely to get hit by some plague--I mean--" (Something

had suddenly exploded in his mind at the word.) He coughed to cover up his

hesitation, and then went on, without making a point of it. "Yes, some

plague is likely to hit them."

Em, to his relief, did not seem to have noticed.

"All we can do then," she said, "I guess, is to sit around and cheer for

the rat's parasites."

Ish did not tell her what had disturbed him. It was the realization that

not just plague in the general sense, but bubonic plague was a common

epidemic among rats. It was spread, he knew, by fleas, and those infected

fleas readily hopped from dead rats to living people. The thought of being

among the new people left in an area inhabited by millions of rats being

killed off by bubonic plague was a horrible situation to contemplate.

He began to deluge the house with DDT and spray it upon his clothing and

Em's. Naturally then she became suspicious, and he had to tell her.

She was not disturbed. Her natural courage rose superior to even the

thought of plague, and perhaps there was a vein of fatalism in her too. The

simplest and safest thing would have been to hurry out of the city, and get

to some place--the desert, perhaps--where few rats could live.

But each of them had already decided independently that life was not to be

lived on the basis of fear. Her courage indeed was stronger than his, and

the horror of the rats pressed in more closely upon him. Occasionally he

even felt panic and was ready to force her into the car for flight. But

always in such times her courage seemed to flow out from her and sustain

him.

As the days passed, he watched individual rats carefully to see if they

seemed sickly. On the contrary, they seemed more active than ever.

Then Em called to him one morning from the window.

"Look, they're fighting!" He went to look, quickly, but without too much

interest. Probably, he thought, it was merely whatever kind of sex-play

rats indulged in. But it was not.

He saw a large rat definitely attacking a smaller one. The small one fought

back, and dodged desperately, and seemed just about to make its escape

through a hole which might be too small for the larger one. Then suddenly a

third and still larger rat appeared, and sprang also upon the small one.

The little pool of blood spread out from the torn throat, and then the

largest rat dragged the body away, the one who had made the original attack

scurrying close after.

In high boots, well gloved, carrying a stout stick in his hand, Ish made an

expedition to the nearest business-center and foraged for some more food.

Curiously, to him, he found very few rats in the stores, and when he

investigated, he found that everything which a rat could get and eat had

been completely wiped out. The stores were a great disgusting litter of

torn papers, and chewed cartons and rat-droppings. They had even chewed the

labels on the cans and bottles, so that sometimes it was difficult even to

tell what was contained in them. Certainly, as yet, starvation and not

disease was c losing in upon the hordes. He took the news back to Em.

Next morning they let Princess out for her daily run. (They had been

allowing her out only once a day as a matter of precaution.) After a few

minutes they heard her wild howling, and she came tearing back to the door

with rats skirmishing all around her, and two or three actually clinging to

her back. Opening the door they let her in, and necessarily admitted three

or four rats along with her. Princess refired under the davenport in a

flurry of howling. Deserted by the cause of the disaster, Ish and Em spent

a lively quarter hour routing out the rats and killing them. They hunted

the house most carefully, aided by a now partially recovered Princess, to

find whether any rat was still lurking in a closet or behind the books of

the bookcase. But they decided that they had killed them all. They kept

Princess shut up, after that, out of necessary precaution, and they also

muzzled her for fear of hydrophobia.

By now they were quite sure that the rats were preying one upon another.

Sometimes they saw a large rat pursuing a smaller rat, and sometimes it

seemed as if several banded together in a pack to attack a single one. They

seemed less numerous now, but that might be because they were keeping out

of sight under the new conditions.

To Ish the whole affair, in spite of a certain horror that he still held of

it, came to be a most interesting study in ecology, almost a laboratory

problem. The rats had first lived upon the stores of food which men had

laid up for them, and these had gradually been transformed into a great

reservoir of rat-flesh. Then, when the cereals and dried fruit and packaged

beans were depleted, there was left--for certain individual rats at

least--this other supply of food. Under such circumstances, it seemed a

question whether any single rat would die of starvation, even though the

rats as a species might be dying of starvation.

"The old and sickly and weak and immature will go first," he said, "and

then those that are not quite so old or sickly or weak or immature--and so

on."

"And eventually," said Em, who sometimes showed disconcerting logic,

"there'll just be two great strong rats left to fight it out--like (what was

it?) the Kilkenny cats?"

Ish explained that before such a fate ensued the rats would have become so

scarce that they would again have begun to forage upon other sources of

food.

When he thought more deeply, he saw that the rats were not actually

destroying the species for their own individual preservation; they were

really saving the species. If the rats had been sentimental and had decided

that they would all starve together without indulging in cannibalism, then

indeed there might have been some danger. But rats were realists, and so

their racial future seemed secure from this emergency.

Day by day, the numbers of rats became fewer, and then one morning they

seemed to be gone entirely. Ish knew that there still must be many rats in

the city, but what had happened was merely what would happen in the decline

of any species. Under natural circumstances, the rats kept out of sight,

like narrow passageways and holes and brash-filled gullies. Only when their

numbers became so great that they could not all find such refuges did they

spill over and inhabit the open places where they could be seen.

Doubtless, at the end, disease may have helped, but he was never sure of

this. One great advantage of the disappearance through cannibalism was that

there were no bodies of rats left around. They had gone on to preserve.the

species into the next generation. Also, he knew, although he did not

investigate, that the rats must have done a great deal toward removing the

bodies of the human beings who had died in the original disaster.

As he collected his thoughts upon the subject, he was surprised that there

had been no plague of mice. The ants had come first, and then had come the

rats. Between the two there should have been a rapid increase of mice,

because the mice should have had almost as good an opportunity as the rats

and because their breeding rate was even faster. He never learned the

answer, but merely had to suppose that some control of which he knew

nothing had acted to prevent the rapid increase of mice.

Both Ish and Em took a little while to recover from the horror with which

the rats had filled them. But after a while they decided that Princess had

not contracted hydrophobia. They loosed her, and life became more normal,

and they forgot about the constant crawling of the gray bodies.

*The fables were wrong. Not the Lion, but Man, was the King of Beasts.

Throughout his reign the rule was heavy, often harsh.*

*But though the cry rise up, "The Kind is dead!" it shall not go on: "Long

live the King!"*

*As in the old days when some conqueror died, leaving no tall son, and the

captains strove together for the scepter and none proved strong enough and

the realm fell apart, so it shall be again, for neither the ant nor the rat

nor the dog nor the ape is wise enough above his fellows. For a little

while there will be jostlings, quick rises and sudden falls; then, a quiet

and a peace such as the earth has not known in twenty thousand years. *

Again her head lay in the crook of his arm, and he looked down into the

dark eyes. She spoke. "Well, you'd better get busy at that book-work now. I

guess it's happened."

And then suddenly before he could say anything, he felt her tremble and she

was crying. He had not thought this of her--this fear! He felt the sudden

weakness of his own terror. What if she collapsed?

"Oh, darling," he cried out. "Maybe we can still do something! There are

ways. You mustn't try to go through with it!"

"Oh, it's not that! *It's not that!"* she cried out, still trembling. "I

lied. Not what I said, what I didn't say! But it's all the same. You're

just a nice boy. You looked at my hands, and said they were nice. You never

even noticed the blue in the half-moons."

He felt the shock, and he knew that she felt the shock mi him. Now

everything came together in his mind--brunette complexion, dark liquid eyes,

full lips, white teeth, rich voice, accepting temperament.

Then she spoke again, scarcely in more than a whisper, "It didn't matter at

first, of course. No man cares then about that. But my mother's people

never had much luck in the world. Maybe when things are starting out again,

it shouldn't be with them. But mostly, I guess, I think it wasn't right

with you."

Then suddenly he heard nothing more, for the whole vast farce of everything

broke in upon him, and he laughed, and all he could do was to laugh and

laugh more, and then he found that she, too, had relaxed and was laughing

with him and holding him all the closer.

"Oh, darling," he said, "everything is smashed and New York lies empty from

Spuyten Duyvil to the Battery, and there's no government in Washington. The

senators and the judges and the governors are all dead and rotten, and the

Jewbaiters and the Negro-baiters along with them. We're just two poor

people, picking at the leavings of civilization for our lives, not knowing

whether it's to be the ants or the rats or something else will get us.

Maybe a thousand years from now people can afford the luxury of wondering

and worrying about that kind of thing again. But I doubt it. And now there

are just the two of us here, or maybe three, now."

He kissed her while she still was weeping quietly. And he knew that for

once he had seen more clearly and more deeply and been stronger than she.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 8*

On the day after she had told him, he drove to the University campus, and

parked in front of the Library. He had never entered it since the Great

Disaster, although he had often gone to the city library for books. The

great building stood undisturbed. Its surrounding bushes and trees had not,

in the few months, grown appreciably taller. The drain pipes all seemed to

b6 functioning perfectly, and no stain of water showed on the white granite

walls. There was only a general impression of dirt and litter and disuse.

He did not want to force an entrance by breaking a window, thus giving

access to animals and also to the rain. In the end, however, he could find

no other way. He tapped gently with his hammer, and managed to break only a

part of a pane, reaching through, he unlocked the window and raised it.

After all, he told himself, he could bring some boards and patch the window

again, so that it would still be rat-proof and weatherproof.

He had been in the Library hundreds of times before, as a matter of course,

during his years at the University. But now under the changed conditions,

he felt a strange new sense of awe. Here rested in storage the wisdom by

which civilization had been built, and could be rebuilt. Now that he knew

himself soon to be a father, he had suddenly -a new attitude, a feeling for

the future. The child should not grow up to be a parasite, scavenging

forever. And it would not need to. Everything was here. All the knowledge!

He had come to hunt up some books on obstetrics, but after looking into the

main reading-room and then wandering through two levels of the stacks, he

became so excited that he left the building in a frenzy of imagination. He

did not need to worry about the obstetrics today. There was plenty of time

still for that.

He drove home in a kind of trance. Books! Most of the knowledge was in

books, and yet he soon saw that they were not all. First of all, there must

be people who could read, who knew how to use the books. He must also save

other things. Seeds, for instance. He must see to it that the more

important domestic plants did not vanish from the earth.

Suddenly he felt that all civilization depended not only upon men but also

upon these other things which had marched with him like kinsmen and friends

and companions. If Saint Francis had hailed the sun as brother, might not

we also say, "Oh, Brother Wheat! Oh, Sister Barley!" He smiled to himself.

Yes, one could go on: "Oh, Grandfather Wheel! Oh, Cousin Compass! Oh,

Friend Binomial Theorem!" All the discoveries of science and philosophy

also might be imagined as standing shoulder to shoulder with man, even

though the putting of the matter into words made it all sound a little

ridiculous.

He hurried, still hot with boyish enthusiasm, to tell it all to Em. He

found her trying, not at all successfully, to teach Princess to retrieve.

Em. was not as enthusiastic as he had expected. "Civilization!" she said.

"Oh, you -mean airplanes going higher and higher, and faster and faster.

That kind of thing!"

"Oh, yes. But art, too, you know. Music, literature, culture."

"Yes, mystery-stories and those funny Negro jazz bands that always made my

ears hurt."

He was crestfallen, even though he knew she was having a little fun with

him.

"Another thing, though, about civilization," she said. "There's this matter

of time. We don't really know what month it is. We'll want to be sure when

his birthday comes, so that we can celebrate it, something less than two

years from now."

Perhaps, he felt in his mind, that was the difference! That was the

difference between woman and man. She felt only in terms of the immediate,

and was more interested in being able to spot her child's birthday than in

all the future of civilization. Again, he felt superior to her. .One thing

I didn't do, though," he said, "was to read any of those obstetrics books

today. I'm sorry--but there's no hurry, is there?"

"Oh, no. Maybe not even any use of it at all. Don't you remember that even

in the Old Times babies were always being born in taxis and hospital

lobbies? Once they're started, nobody can stop them."

Later, when he had thought things ovet, he could not but admit that she had

made a suggestion of something important. The more he thought about it, the

more fundamental he considered her idea of keeping track of time. After

all, time was history, and history was tradition, and tradition was

civilization. If you'lost the continuity of time, you lost something that

might never be recovered. Probably it had already been lost unless some of

the other survivors had been more careful about the matter than he had

been. Take the seven-day week, for instance. Even though you were not

religious, you had to admit that the seven-day week with its one day of

rest was a fine old tradition of mankind. It had been going on for at least

five thousand years, clear from Babylonian times, and no one knew how much

further. Would he ever be able to figure out again just which day was

Sunday?

As for getting the proper day of the year, that should not be too

difficult. He knew enough about the fundamentals of astronomy to do that,

and if he got the time of the solstice correct, he could figure back on

last year's calendar and perhaps re-establish the day of the week.

This was the time of the year to get busy on the problem. Although he did

not know exactly, he could tell from the progress of the weather and from

his general knowledge of how much time had elapsed since the catastrophe,

that it must have come now pretty well toward the middle of December. If

the solstice was to be in a week or so, he could easily tell by watching

where the sun set.

Next day he found a surveyor's transit, and although he did not. know much

about the use of it, he set it up on the porch, facing the west. He

blackened its lenses with soot, so that he could observe the sun without

hurting his'eyes. His very first observation showed that the sun was going

down behind the hills of San Francisco, to the south of the Golden Gate.

From memory he knew that this was very near to its most southern point of

setting. He left the transit in position, and recorded the angle of the

sunset.

The next evening it set still a little farther south. And then, as systems

do, his system went to pieces. A heavy storm blew in from the ocean, and

during a whole week he could not observe where the sun set. Next time he

saw it, it had already started north.

"Well, anyway," he said, "we must be pretty close to it. If we add one day

to the time when we last saw the sun, we ought to be very near to the

solstice, and then if we add ten days to that, we would get to New Years."

Isn't that rather silly?" she said.

"Why?"

"Well, I mean, that is, shouldn't'the year really start when the sun turns

north again? Don't you guess really that was what people tried to do once,

and things got mixed up some way or other, and got about ten days out of

kilter?"

"Yes, I imagine it was that way."

"Well, why don't we just start our New Year then with--what you call it?--the

solstice? It seems simpler."

"Yes, but you can't just go fooling with the calendar. That's been

established for a long time. You can't just shift it.,"

"Well, didn't someone named Julian do it, and weren't there riots and

things? But still, they did change it."

"They did change it! Yes, you're right--and I suppose we can change it now

if we want to. It certainly gives a person a sense of power!"

Then in playfulness of imagination they decided that living where they did,

they had a system all worked out before them, so that they would not even

bother to have months and things like that unless they wanted to, because

from the hill they could see the sun setting around its whole arc. They

could merely date things by the time the sun set in the middle of the Gate,

or the time it had reached the first big hump to the north, or the time it

had begun to, reach the various points along the long slope of the

mountain. What was the use of merely having months?

"Say!" she said, suddenly, "it must be pretty nearly Christmas, too. I

hadn't thought of that. You think I can get down before the stores close to

pick you a tie?"

He looked back at her with a little smile. "I suppose we ought to feel

pretty lugubrious this Christmas, and yet, some way, I can't."

"Next year," she said, "this ought to be even more fun. We'll have to get

him his first tree."

"Yes, and he can have a rattle, too, can't he? What I'm looking forward to,

though, is when he can get an electric train, and I can run it. No, poor

guy, I guess there'll never be an electric train for him. Maybe, though,

when we have grandchildren, in twenty-five years, maybe, we'll be able to

get the electricity working again!"

"Twenty-five years! I'll be a pretty old woman by that time. It's strange,

thinking forwards now, as well as backwards. For a while, I only thought

backwards. But that thinking ahead brings up something else to my mind,

also--the years! We'll have to keep track of the years. Don't people on

desert islands cut notches in trees or something like that? You see, he'll

want to know what year it is; so he can vote or get a passport, or report

to his draft board, maybe. Only perhaps, you aren't going to restore things

like that for us in this new civilization. What is this year, anyway, now?"

Again he thought that was like a woman, to put even such an all-important

thing as the very date in terms of her unborn child. But yet, as so often,

her instinct was right--a great pity if the historical record should be

broken at some point! Doubtless in the long run, archeologists could

restore the continuity by means of varves or dendrochronology, but it would

save a lot of work if someone merely kept the tradition.

"You're right," he said. "And it's simple, too, of course. We know what

year it is now, and when we decide we've come to New Years, we'll just

chisel a new date on some good rock, and then every year chisel the next

one. The chiseling will be quite a job, and so we'll always remember

whether we are up-to-date or not."

"Isn't that rather silly, too?" she said. "I mean, starting out with a date

in four figures. As far as. I'm concerned," she paused for a moment and

looked around with that quiet air which sometimes was so impressive, "as

far as I'm concerned, this past year might as well be the Year One."

That evening there was no rain. The clouds still hung low, but the air was

clear beneath them. You could have seen the lights of San Francisco, if

there had been any lights.

He stood on the porch, and looked out toward the dark west, breathing the

cool damp air in deeply. His mood was still close to exaltation.

"Now we have finished with the past," he thought. "These last few months,

the tag-end of the year--we shall let the past have them. This is the Moment

Zero, and we stand between two eras. Now the new life begins. Now we

commence the Year One. The Year One!"

Now there lay before him no longer the mere drama of a world without men

and of its constant adaptation. No longer would personal readjustment be

his own dominating problem. Now there stretched away in the years ahead,

the unfolding drama of a new society, reconstructing itself, moving on. And

now he would not be the lonely spectator, at least, not merely that. He

could read. He was equipped with the background of much knowledge already.

He would extend that into technics, into psychology, into political

science, if that were needed.

There must be others that he could find also to join with them-good people

who would help in the new world. He would start looking for people again.

He would look craftily, tying to keep away from all those who had suffered

too much from the shock, whose minds or bodies were not what one wanted to

build up the new society.

Somewhere within him there lingered still that one deep fear that she might

die in childbirth, that the whole hope of the future might thus fade. And

yet, he could really not fear it very deeply. Her courage burned too

brightly. She was life. He could not associate her with death. She was the

light for the future, she and those that would spring from her. "0 mother

of nations! And her children shall call her blessed!"

He himself would have had only the courage to live on, feeling death creep

in closer year by year as once the darkness had crept in from the comers of

the room when the lights were failing. Her stronger spirit had struck back

against death, and already life built up anew within her. From her depths

courage flowed out to him.

It was curious, doubtless even illogical, that the thought of the coming

child should make so much difference. But he granted the difference. He had

known despair, but now he knew hope. He looked forward with confidence to

the time when the sun would again be setting in the southern end of its

long arc and the two of them--or the three--would go to carve into some rock

the numeral commernorating the end of the Year One. It was not finished.

The thing would go on. A phrase leaped into his mind.

"Oh, world without end!" he thought. As he stood there, looking out into

the dark west over the empty city, breathing deeply of the cool damp air,

the words sang in his mind, "Oh, world without end! World without end!"

*Here ends Part I. The inter-chapter called* Quick Years

*follows, after a time-interval of one year.*

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Quick Years*

Not far from the house on San Lupo Drive there was that area which had once

been a small public park. Tall rocks rose picturesquely, and at one place

the tops of two of them leaned together, forming a high narrow cave. Near

by, a smooth rock-surface, as large as the floor of a small room, sloped

with the hillside, but was not too steep to sit on comfortably. In those

older times which had been before even those that were now called the Old

Times, some tribe of simple people had lived thereabouts, and on the smooth

rock-surface you still saw the little holes where those people had pounded

with stones to make their acorn-mash.

One day, after the round of the seasons had passed and the sun for the

second time sank well to the south of the Golden Gate, Ish and Em climbed

the hillside toward the rocks. The afternoon was calm and sunny, warm for

mid-winter. Em carried the baby, wrapped in a soft blanket. (She was

pregnant again, although not yet heavy on her feet.) Ish carried his hammer

and a cold-chisel. Princess started with them, but as always went baying

off on the trail of one of her rabbits.

When they came to the rock, Em sat down on it in the sun and nursed the

baby, and Ish worked with hammer and chisel, cutting into the smooth

surface the single numeral. The rock was hard, but with the heavy hammer

and the sharp chisel, he soon finished an upright line. But it was fun to

adom the work a little, and some ceremony seemed fitting to mark the end of

their first full circuit of the sun from south back to south. So Ish cut a

clean serif at the base of the line, and a little hook at the top, so that

the finished figure resembled the neat I which he remembered in the times

of printing. When he was done, he sat close beside Em in the sun. The baby

had finished feeding, and was happy. They played with him. "Well," said

Ish, "that was the Year One!"

"Yes," said Em, "but I think I shall always remember it as the Year of the

Baby. Names are easier to remember than numbers."

Thus from the very beginning it came about that they called each year not

so often by its number as by a name based on something that had happened

during that time.

In the spring of the second year, Ish planted his first garden. He had

never liked gardening, and that probably explained why, in spite of good

resolutions and two half-hearted attempts, he had not grown anything during

the first. year. Nevertheless, as he turned over the dark moist soil with

the spade, he felt a deep satisfaction at being in touch again with

primeval things.

That was about all the satisfaction he got from the garden. To begin with,

the seed (he had had a hard time to find any at all because of the ravages

of the rats) was several years old, and much of it failed to sprout. Snails

and slugs soon moved in, but by scattering a box of Snale-Killa he

eliminated them, and felt triumphant. Then, just as the lettuce was making

a good growth, a buck jumped the fence and wrought havoc. Ish put another

layer on the top of the fence. Next, some rabbits burrowed beneath-more

destruction, and more work! One evening he heard crashing noises and rushed

out just in tinie to scare off a predatory cow on the point of smashing a

way through the fence. More work!

By this time he was waking up at night with thoughts of ravening deer,

rabbits, and cattle prowling around his fence and ogling his lettuces with

eyes that gleamed like tigers' eyes.

Then, in June, the insects arrived. He sprayed poison until he was afraid

he would not dare eat the lettuce even if any lived to be harvested.

The crows were the last to find the garden, but when they arrived in July

their numbers made up for their late arrival. He stood guard, and shot some

of them. But they seemed to post sentries and swoop down as soon as his

back was turned, and he could not watch during all the daylight hours. His

scarecrows and dangling mirrors kept them off for a day, but after that

they lost their fear. In the end he actually erected a shelter of

fly-screen over the few rows of garden which seemed worth saving, and he

harvested a little lettuce, along with some scrawny tomatoes and onions.

But he conscientiously let some of the plants go to seed, and saved the

fresh seed for the future.

He was as thoroughly discouraged as any amateur gardener had ever been. It

was one thing apparently to grow vegetables when thousands of others were

doing the same, and quite another when yours was the only plot and so from

miles around every vegetable-hungry animal and bird and mollusk and insect

came galloping or flying or oozing or hopping, and apparently sending out

by signals to its fellows the universal shout, "Let's eat!"

Toward the end of summer the second baby was born. They called her Mary,

just as they had decided finally to call the first one John, so that the

old names would not vanish from the earth.

When the new baby was only a few weeks old, there was another memorable

event.

This was the way of it.... In those first years though Ish and Em stayed

contentedly close at home, they now and then had visits from wanderers who

had seen the smoke on San Lupo Drive and headed for it, sometimes in cars,

more often on foot. These people, with one exception, seemed to be

suffering from shock. They were bees who had lost the hive, sheep without a

flock. By now, Ish concluded, the ones who had made a good adjustment must

already have settled down. (Besides, no matter whether the wanderer was a

man or a woman, the old problem of three's-a-crowd reared up.) So Ish and

Em were glad when one of these restless and unhappy people decided to

continue wandering.

The exception was Ezra. Ish always remembered how Ezra came strolling along

the street that hot September day, his face florid, his half-bald head even

redder, his jaw narrow and pinched, his bad teeth showing suddenly when he

saw Ish and stopped and smiled.

"Hi-ya, boy!" he had said, and though the words were American, still behind

them somewhere was the ghost of a North-of-England accent.

He stayed until after the first rains. He was always pleasant, even when

his teeth were growling. He had that miexpressibly great gift of making

people feel comfortable. The babies always smiled for Ezra. Ish and Em

would have urged him to stay permanently, but they feared the

triangle-situation, even when the outsider was as easygoing and perceptive

as Ezra. So one day when he seemed restless they sent him off, telling him

jokingly to find himself a pretty girl and then come back and join them.

They were sad after he had gone.

At the time of his leaving the sun was again far to the south. So, when

they went to the flat rock and cut the numeral 2, Ezra was still in their

minds, though he was gone and they did not expect to see him again. He

would have been, they thought, a good helper, a good person to have around.

To his memory they called it the Year of Ezra.

The Year 3 was the Year of the Fires. Just after mid-summer the smoke

suddenly drifted over everything, and it stayed, lighter and heavier,

through three months. The babies sometimes woke up coughing and choking,

their eyes watering.

Ish could realize what was happening. The western forests were no longer

primeval woodlands of big trees through which a fire could sweep and do

little damage. On the contrary, because of logging and man-caused fires,

the forests consisted mostly of thick and highly inflammable second-growth,

made all the worse by slash-piles and brush-fields. Man had produced this

kind of forest, and it was dependent upon him, surviving only because of

his vigorous efforts at fire-suppression. Now the hoses lay neatly coiled

and the bull-dozers reddened with rust, and in this summer, a very dry one,

over, all northern California, and doubtless in Oregon and Washington too,

the lightning-set fires were raging uncombatted through the tangled

second-growth and blazing up in the tinder-dry slash-piles. One horrible

week they even saw the fires burning brightly in the night, all along the

north side of the Bay, sweeping the slopes of the mountain from bottom to

top, and dying out only when there was nothing left to burn. The broad arms

of the Bay fortunately kept the fire on the north side, and there were no

lightning storms on the south side to start new fires. When it was all

over, Ish believed that there must be very few forests left unburned in

California, and centuries would be required to grow them again.

In this year also Ish really settled down to reading--another sign that he

was finally adjusting to the situation. He got his books from the City

Library, and kept the million volumes of the University as a great reserve

to be tapped when the time was ripe. Although he often thought that he

should use his reading to make himself skillful in such fields as medicine

and agriculture and mechanics, he found that what he actually wanted to

read was the story of mankind. He plunged through innumerable volumes of

anthropology and history, and went on into philosophy, particularly the

philosophy of history. He mad novels and poems and plays, which also were

the story of mankind.

Sometimes in the evening, when he was reading and Em was knitting, and the

babies were asleep upstairs and Princess was lying lazily in front of the

fire-sometimes then Ish would look up and think that his father and mother

had passed many evenings in just the same way. But then he would see the

gasoline lamp and turn his eyes up to the dead electriclight bulbs in the

ceiling-fixture.

The Year 4 was the Year of the Coming.... One day in early spring, about

noon, Princess leaped up barking wildly and dashed for the street, and then

they heard a car-horn tooting. Ezra had been gone for more than a year, and

they had stopped thinking about him. But there he was-in a jalopylooking

car, overflowing with people and household goods. Ish couldn't help

thinking of an Okie outfit arriving in California in the Old Times.

Besides Ezra, there crawled out of the car a woman of about thirty-five, a

younger woman, a frightened-looking half-grown girl, and a little boy. Ezra

introduced the older woman as Molly, and the younger as Jean, and after

each name he added calmly and without embarrassment, "My wife."

Ish suffered only mild shock at the fact of bigamy. He had been through a

great many experiences already, and he reacted quickly to realize that

plurality of wives had been an accepted part of many great civilizations in

the past and might well be again in the future. It was certainly a

practical situation when there were two women available and only one man,

especially when the man was like Ezra, able to live comfortably with people

under all sorts of conditions.

The little boy was Ralph, Molly's son. He had been bom only a few weeks

before the Great Disaster, and had presumably either inherited immunity or

absorbed it through his mother's milk. This was the only case, so far as

they knew, of two members of the same family surviving. The half-grown girl

they called Evie, but nobody really knew her right name. Ezra had found her

living in squalor and solitude, opening cans to find what she needed,

grubbing for worms and snails. She must have been five or six years old at

the time of theGreat Disaster. Whether she had always been half-witted, or

whether the shock of death and solitude had rendered her so, no one knew.

She cowered and whimpered, and even Ezra could win a smile from her only

now and then. She knew a few words, and after they had been kind to her for

a long time, she gradually came to talk more, but she never grew normal.

Later in the same year Ish and Ezra went off together for a few days in

Ish's old station-wagon. The trip was not a pleasant one; they had

tire-trouble and engine-trouble, and the roads were rough. Nevertheless

they accomplished what they had set out to do.

They located George and Maurine, whom Ezra had found on one of his

wanderings. George was a big shambling fellow, gray around the temples,

good-natured, uncertain in speech but deft in his trade, which was

carpentry. ("Too bad!" thought Ish. "A mechanic or a farmer would have been

better for us!") Maurine was his female counterpart, except that she was

some ten years younger, around forty probably. She loved housekeeping as

George loved carpentry. As for their mental processes, you might call

George dull, but you would have to call Maurine stupid.

Privately Ish and Ezra discussed George and Maurine, and decided that they

were good solid people, comfortable to have around, more a source of

strength than of weakness. (It was a little, Ish thought wryly, like

deciding whether you would give someone a bid to your fraternity, and when

there were so few to choose from, you couldn't be too choosy.) In the end

George and Maurine came along back in the station-wagon.

Ish and Maurine found that they had one experience in common. As a little

girl in South Dakota, she had been bitten by a rattlesnake.

Toward the end of this year Em bore her second son, whom they named Roger.

So by that time the people living on San Lupo Drive numbered seven adults,

andfour children, and Evie besides. About then they began, at first as a

joke, to talk of themselves as The Tribe.

The Year 5 supplied no very startling occurrence. Both Molly and Jean had

babies, and Ezra was as pleased as a two-time father should be. In the end

they called it the Year of the Bulls. This was because there was a plague

of cattle that year, just as from the first months they all remembered the

plagues of the ants and the rats. Cattle had gradually got to be more and

more numerous. Very rarely did anyone see a horse; never, a sheep. But it

was good country for cattle, and they reached a climax in this year, and

became a nuisance. To be sure, you easily got all the steak you wanted,

though it was tough. But you had continual trouble running into a cross

bull when you were merely wanting to walk here or there. You could always

shoot a bull, but shooting one near the houses either meant that you had to

go to all the trouble of burying the carcass, or of dragging it away, or

else you suffered from the smell. They all had to become adept at stepping

quickly out of the way when a bull charged, and they came to make something

of a sport of this, and to call it "bull-dodging."

The Year 6 was an eventful one. During its course all four of the women

bore children-even Maurine, who had seemed too old. There was, however-ikow

that Em had led the way-a strong drive toward the having of many children.

Each of the adults had for a time lived alone, had experienced what they

now called the Great Loneliness, and the strange dread that went with it.

Even now their little group was only a tiny candle against the pressure of

surrounding darkness. Each new-born baby seemed to give the uncertain flame

a stronger hold and to push the darkness of annihilation back a little. At

the end of this year the number of children, which was ten, exceeded the

number of adults-and then of course there was Evie, who was hardly to be

counted in either group.

But it was an eventful year for other reasons too. It was a year of drought

and of little grass, and the too numerous cattle grew thin and wandered

everywhere, searching food. Driven madly by hunger, they crashed the strong

fence around the little vegetable plot one night. The aroused men emptied

rifles into the milling cattle at short range, but before they could be

driven off, the garden was utterly ruined-ironically, by being trampled

out, for in the confusion of the milling herd no animal had been able to

eat.

To crown all this, came the grasshoppers. They descended suddenly, and ate

up everything that the cattle could not reach. They ate the leaves from the

trees and the flesh from the ripening peaches, so that the bare seeds hung

from the ends of the leafless branches. Then the grasshoppers died, and

their stench was everywhere.

After a while the cattle also lay dead by hundreds in the dry stream-beds

and muddy waterholes, and their stench too filled the air. By now the land

was stripped bare, as if it would never recover.

A horror fell upon the people. Ish tried to explain to them that it was all

a part of the jostling for readjustment after the loss of human controls.

There was bound to be, for instance, a plague of grasshoppers during the

first year when conditions favored them, now that their breeding-grounds

were not disturbed by cultivation. But with the stench in the air and the

whole earth looking dead, he could not be very convincing. George and

Maurine took to prayer. Jean made fun of themopenly, saying that what had

happened in the last few years didn't give her confidence in this

god-business. Molly went into depressions, and wept loudly at times. In

spite of his rationalistic explanaoons even Ish was despondent for the

future. Of the adults only Ezra and Em showed the capacity for taking

things as they came.

The older children seemed to be little affected. They gulped their canned

milk greedily, even when the stench was thickest. John (they already were

calling him Jack) held his father's hand with confidence, and looked with

mild six-yearold interest at a cow which had tottered along the street and

lay dying in the sun. He obviously accepted it as just part of his world.

But the nursing babies, except Em's, absorbed a sense of disaster through

their mothers' milk. They wailed fretfully. Thus disturbing their mothers

all the more, they set up a vicious circle. October was a month of horror.

Then came the miracle! Two weeks after the first rain they looked out, and

the hills were a faint green with sprouting grass. Everyone was suddenly

happy, and Molly and Maurine wept with pleasure. Even Ish was relieved, for

in the last weeks the despair of the others had shaken his confidence in

the basic recuperative powers of the earth itself, and he had begun to

doubt whether any seed remained.

When, at the time of the winter solstice, the people all gathered once more

at the smooth expanse of rock to cut the numeral into the surface and to

name the year, they were uncertain what they should call it. It might be,

for good omen, the Year of the Four Babies. But it might be the Year of the

Dead Cattle, or the Year of the Grasshoppers. In the end the evilness of

the year prevailed in their thoughts. So they called it simply the Bad

Year.

The Year 7 was a strange one also. The mountain-lions suddenly seemed to be

everywhere. You hardly dared to walk between houses without carrying a

rifle, and having a dog at heel to give warning, and the dog kept usually

very close at heel also. The lions never quite dared attack a man, but they

picked up four dogs, and you were never quite sure whether one of them

might not just suddenly leap from a tree. The children had to be kept

indoors. What had happened was again obvious enough to Ish. During the

years when there had been so many cattle, the lions must have bred rapidly,

and now that the cattle had perished,in the drought, the lions were left

without food and ravenously were closing in.

In the end there was bad luck, because Ish missed his shot and instead of

killing a lion merely raked it across the shoulders, and it charged and

mauled him before Ezra could get another shot home. After that he walked

with a little limp, and became very bred when he had to sit long in the

same position, as in driving a car. (Butby now the roads had gone to pieces

badly and the cars were unreliable and there were few placesto go anyway,

so that there was very little car-driving.) Naturally, they called it the

Year of the Lions.

The Year 8 was comparatively uneventful. They called it the Year We Went to

Church. (The name amused Ish, for its wording implied that that experiment

was over and done with.)

This had happened in this way.... Being merely seven ordinary Americans,

they were of varied religious affiliations or of none at all, and even

among the church-members no one had felt any creative religious drive. Ish

had gone to SundaySchool as a child, but when Maurine asked him what church

he belonged to, he had to say that he was a skeptic. Maurine did not know

the word, and jumping to the wrong conclusion she always referred to Ish

thereafter as being a member of the Skeptic Church.

Maurine herself was a Catholic, and so was Molly. They could still cross

themselves and say a *Hail Mary,* but otherwise they were in a bad

situation, having no confessor and no way of celebrating mass. As Ish

reflected, the Catholic Church had considered almost all possibilities, but

apparently never the one of getting reorganized after the Apostolic

Succession was broken and only two women remained.

Of the others, George had been a Methodist,'and a deacon. But he was too

inarticulate to turn preacher, and not enough of a leader to organize a

congregation. Ezra was tolerant of everyone's beliefs, but never let

himself be pinned down as to his own, and so probably lacked any

convictions. Jean had been a member of some loud-praying modern sect called

Christ's Own. But she had seen the congregation pray in vain at the time of

the Great Disaster, and now she had turned definitely anti-religious. Em,

who never liked to turn toward the past, was reticent. As far as Ish could

tell, she never prayed. Now and then, apparently without thinking of

religious implications, she sang hymns or spirituals in her full throaty

contralto.

George and Maurine, sinking the Methodist-Catholic differences, were the

ones who suggested church services--"for the sake of the children." They

appealed to Ish, who was something of a leader, especially in things

intellectual, Maurine, broad-mindedly, even told him that she would not

object to the use of "the Skeptic form of services."

Ish felt the temptation. He could easily piece together some harmless bits

of religion, give comfort and confidence to people who might often need it

badly, and supply a core of solidity and union to the cominunity. George,

Maurine and Molly would welcome it; Jean should be easy to convert again;

Ezra would not stand in the way. But Ish himself hated building upon a

foundation of insincerity, and he knew that Em would see through the sham.

In the end they held a service each Sunday-George had kept track of Sunday,

or at least thought so. They sang hymns, and read from the Bible, and stood

uncovered for silent prayer, each for himself.

But Ish never prayed during the period of silence, and he did not think

that Em or Ezra did either. Moreover, Jean maintained her hostility

stoutly, and never attended. Ish felt that if he had had more fervor, or

more hypocrisy, he could have argued Jean over. As it was, however, the

church services were cultivating disunion rather than unity of feeling, and

sham more than true religion. One day, on the spur of the moment, Ish put

an end to them. He did it rather neatly, he thought, ending his speech with

the idea that they were not really giving up the services but merely

extending the period of silent prayer indefinitely--"letting each one of us

carry on in his heart as he wishes."

Molly wept a little at what seemed to her such a lovely thought, and so the

experiment with the church at least was ended in harmony.

At the beginning of the Year 9 there were seven adults, and Evie, and

thirteen children, ranging in age from new-born babies up to Molly's Ralph,

who was nine, and Ish and Em's Jack, who was eight.

Everybody had a pleasant sense of confidence and security in the growth of

the community, or of The Tribe, as they now said more often. The birth of

each baby was a time of real rejoicing, as the shadows seemed to draw back

a little and the circle of light to enlarge.

Soon after the beginning of that year, a decent-looking oldish man came up

to George's house one morning. He was one of those wanderers who still

occasionally, though less and less often, passed through.

They received him hospitably, but like the others he showed little reaction

to what they did for him. He stayed only over one night, and then went off

again, without even saying good-bye, in the aimless way of those shocked

ones.

He had scarcely gone, it seemed, before people began feeling irritable. All

the babies started crying. Then soon there were sore throats and running

noses and aching heads and swollen eyes, and The Tribe was suddenly in all

the throes Of an epidemic.

This was all the more remarkable because throughout the preceding years the

general health had been so unbelievably good. Ezra and some of the others

had suffered with bad teeth; George, who was the oldest, had complained of

various aching joints which he described under the old-fashioned term

"rheumatism"; occasionally a scratch became infected. But even the common

cold seemed to have vanished entirely, and there were only two diseases

that remained active. One Of these struck each of the children sooner or

later; it was a great deal like measles in its symptoms, and doubtless it

was measles, and that was what they called it, lacking any doctor to make

them sure. The other began with a violent sore throat, but yielded so

quickly to sulfa pills that no one really knew its full course. As long as

there were sulfa pills in any drug store and they kept potent in spite of

age, Ish saw no need to find out experimentally just how this sore throat

would develop, if left untreated.

Why so few diseases remained--this seemed miraculous to people like George

and Maurine, and they were inclined to be superstitious about the matter.

They felt that God in some great anger had nearly wiped out the human race

in one vast plague, and thus being satisfied, had seen fit to remove the

minor plagues as a kind of compensation--just as, after Noah's flood, he had

set the rainbow in the sky as a sign that there would never again be

another such flood.

To Ish, however, the explanation was plain. Since so large a proportion of

the people had died, the chain of most infections had been broken, and many

individual diseases had, you might say, "died" when their particular kinds

of bacteria became extinct. Of course there would still be the diseases

which might spring from the mere deterioration of the human body, such as

heart-failure and cancer, and George's "rheumatism," and there might also

be animal-borne infections, like tularemia and tick-fever. Also there could

be, here and there, individual survivors who carried some disease in

chronic form, but could still pass it on to others, just as someone of

themselves had probably been responsible for the survival of "measles."

The old man, everyone remembered too late, had blown his nose occasionally.

Doubtless he had an infected sinus, and so had infected them all with what

used to be called "die common cold," although lately it had been so

uncommon as to seem extinct.

In any case there was something almost comic in the way so many

disgustingly healthy people were suddenly transformed into sneezers and

coughers and hawkers and noseblowers.

Fortunately, the cold ran its course without complications, and in a few

weeks everyone was ivell again. Throughout the rest of that year Ish lived

in fear of another outbreak. There was a good chance, he knew, that the

infection might be quiescent in one of them, and then break loose again

when die short-time immunity of the others had worn off. But the long dry

summer (it was particularly sunny that year) doubtless helped everyone to

throw.off the last vestiges of the infection. That was great luck! Ish had

been highly susceptible in the Old Times. He had sometimes said, not

altogether as a joke, that the loss of the common cold compensated for the

accompanying loss of civilization.

That autumn, however, the good luck ran out. No one ever knew exactly what

happened, but three of the children fell ill with violent diarrhoea, and

died. Most likely they had been wandering about at play in one of the

near-by uninhabited houses, and had found some poison-ant-poison, perhaps.

Tasting it curiously they had found it sweet, and shared it. Even when

dead, civilization seemed to lay traps.

One of the children had been Ish's own son. He had always worried, not

about himself, but about Em, in such a case. Yet, though she moumed for the

child, he saw that he had underestimated her strength. Her hold on life was

so strong that, paradoxically, she could accept death also as a part of

life. Both Molly and Jean, the other bereaved mothers, grieved

hysterically, and were much more stricken.

That year two children were born, but nevertheless the total number of The

Tribe for the first time was smaller at the end than at the beginning of a

year. They called it the Year of the Deaths.

The Year 10 had no remarkable events, and no one was convinced as to what

it should be called. But when they sat on the flat rock and Ish poised his

hammer and began to cut with the chisel, for the first time some of the

children spoke up, and they said it should be called the Year of the

Fishing. This was because during this year they had discovered that the Bay

was swarming with beautiful striped bass, and they had had a great deal of

fun going fishing and catching them. Besides supplying a very fine variety

to the diet, the fishing had also been a real source of amusement to

everybody. But in general, Ish was surprised how little actual necessity

they had to seek amusement. In the kind of life that they lived there

always seemed to bea good deal to do just to get food and to support

oneself in comfort and there was in it a great deal of satisfaction which

did not call for anything as definite as amusement.

In the Year 11, Molly and Jean bore children, but Molly's died at birth.

This was a great disappointment, because it was the first one that they had

lost at childbirth, and in the course of the years the women had become

very skillful at helping one another. They thought that perhaps this death

was caused from Molly's being old now.

When it came to naming the year, however, there was a dispute between old

and young. The older ones thought it should be called the Year when

Princess Died.... She had been ailing, an old dog, for some time. No one

knew just how ancient she was, because she might have been anywhere from

one year to three or four when she first picked up Ish. She had remained

the same--always the princess, expecting the best of treatment, always

unreliable, always ready to disappear on the trail of an imaginary rabbit

just when you wanted her. But for all you might say against her, she had

shown a very real character, and the older people could remember the time

when she seemed very important along San Lupo Drive, almost another person.

By now there were dozens of dogs around. Nearly all of them must be

children or grandchildren or great-grandchildren of Princess, who on

various occasions had disappeared for a day or two and apparently met an

old friend among the wild dogs or picked up a new one. As the result of a

lot of inbreeding and out-breeding and cross-breeding, these present dogs

were very little like beagles, but varied tremendously in size and color

and temperament.

But to the children Princess had been an old and not very interesting dog

of uncertain temper. They said that this should be the Year of the

Wood-Carving, and after a momentary hesitation Ish supported them, even

though Princess had meant more to him than to anyone else. She had taken

him out of himself in those first bad days and let him free himself of

fear, and her wild barking dash had taken him into the house where he found

Em, when otherwise he might have hesitated and driven on. But also, he

thought, Princess was over and done with, and only a link with the past, to

be remembered by people who were growing older and older. Soon the younger

children would not remember her at all. After a while she would be wholly

forgotten. (Then the icy thought came to him: "So too I may grow old, and

older, and be merely a link to the past, and be an unregarded old duffer,

and then die and be soon forgotten--yet that is as it should be!")

Then, as the others argued, he thought of the wood-carving. It had swept

over them as a kind of fad or craze, like bubble-blowing or mah-jongg in

the Old Times. Suddenly all the children were raiding lumber yards for good

boards of soft sugar-pine, and were trying to carve running designs of

figures of cattle or dogs or people. They worked awkwardly at first, but

soon some of them grew skillful. Though, like all fads, it had fallen off,

still the children worked at it on rainy days.

Ish had studied enough anthropology to know that any healthy people should

have creative outlets, and he was worried that The Tribe had not developed

artistically but was still living under the shadow of the past, listening

to old records on the wind-up phonographs and looking at old picture books.

Accordingly he had been pleased at the fad for wood-carving.

At a pause in the argument he spoke up, supporting the children. So it came

to be known as the Year of the Wood-Carving, and in Ish's mind the Year 11

had a symbolic value, as a breaking with the past and a turning to the

future. Yet the naming was a small matter, and he was not sure that he

should attach any significance to it.

In the Year 12, Jean lost a child in childbirth, but Em made up for it by

bearing the first pair of twins, whom they called Joseph and Josephine, or

more commonly, Joey and Josey. So this was the Year of the Twins.

The Year 13 saw the birth of two children who both lived. It was a quiet

and comfortable year, with nothing to mark it especially. So, for lack of

anything better, they merely called it the Good Year.

The Year 14 was much like it, so they called that the Second Good Year.

The Year 15 was also excellent, and they considered calling it the Third

Good Year, but there was a difference. Ish and the older people again felt

that first loneliness and the drawing in of the darkness. Not to grow more

numerous was essentially to grow fewer, and this was the first year since

the very beginning when there had been no children born. All the women--Em,

Molly, Jean and Maurine--were now getting old, and the younger girls were

not yet quite old enough to marry, except for Evie, the half-witted one,

who should never be allowed to have children. So they did not like to call

this the Third Good Year, because it was not wholly good. Instead, the

children remembered that this year could be thought remarkable because Ish

had got out his old accordion and to its wheezing they had sung songs

together--old songs like *Home on the Range* or *She'll Be Comin' Round the

Mountain,* and so they called this, at the children's prompting, the Year

That We Sang. (No one except Ish seemed to think that anything was wrong

with the grammar.)

The Year 16, however, was remarkable because the first marriage actually

took place. Those married were Mary, who was Ish and Em's oldest daughter,

and Ralph, who had been bom to Molly just before the Great Disaster. They

were younger than would have been thought suitable or even decent for

marriage in the Old Days, but in this also standards had changed. Ish and

Em, when they discussed the matter privately, were not even sure that Mary

was especially fond of Ralph, or Ralph of Mary. But everyone had always

assumed that the two of them would get married because there was nobody

else available whom either of them could take, just as it once was with

princes and princesses. So perhaps, as Ish concluded, romantic love had

merely been another necessary casualty of the Great Disaster.

Maurine and Molly and Jean were all for "a real wedding," as they said.

They hunted up a Lohengrin record for the windup phonograph, and were

making a wedding costume in white with a veil, and everything to go with

it. But, to Ish, all this seemed a horrible parody of things that had once

been; Em, in her quiet way, supported him. Since Mary was their daughter,

they controlled the wedding. In the end, they had no ceremony at all,

except that Ralph and Mary stood before Ezra, and he told them that now

they were being married and that they would assume a new responsibility to

the community and that they must try to fulfill it well. Mary bore a child

before the year was out, and so for that reason, it was called the Year of

the Grandchild.

The Year 17 they called, mostly at the children's prompting, the Year the

House Busted. The reason was that one of the nearby houses had suddenly

collapsed and crashed down with a great noise just in time for some of the

children to see it as they came running out at the first crack. On

investigation, the matter proved simple enough, because termites had had a

chance now to work in the house for seventeen years undisturbed, and had

eaten through the underpinning. But the incident had made a great

impression upon the children, and so it gave the name to the year, although

it was not really a matter of importance.

In the Year 18, Jean bore still another child. This was the last of all

that were born to the older generation, but by this time there were two

marriages of the second generation, and two more grandchildren were born.

This was called the Year of the Schoolteaching.... Ever since the first

children had been old enough, Ish had tried, in a more or less desultory

way, to give them some kind of teaching, so that they could at least read

and write and do a little arithmetic, and know something of geography. But

it had always been difficult to get the children together, and there seemed

to be so many things that they wanted to do, either in play or in earnest,

and the schoolteaching had never accomplished very much, although most of

the older children could read after a fashion. At least they had once been

able to read, but Ish doubted whether some of them--such as Mary, who was

now a mother with two babies--could at the present moment do more than spell

out words of one syllable. (Though she was his own beloved oldest daughter,

he admitted to himself that Mary was not intellectual--no need to say she

was stupid.)

In this Year 18, however, Ish really tried to get together all of the

children who were of proper age, so that they would not grow up completely

ignorant. It worked for a while, and then again it lapsed, and it was hard

to say whether he had accomplished anything or not, and he felt a sense of

frustration.

The Year 19 was named the Year of the Elk, again because of a little

incident which impressed the children. One morning some of them saw Evie,

now grown to be a woman, looking out and pointing and crying excitedly in

her strange voice, which did not quite form words. When they looked, they

saw that she was pointing at a new kind of animal. This turned out to be an

elk, which was the first one that they had seen in all these years.

Apparently, the herds had now increased enough so that they had worked down

from the north and were coming back into this region, where they had lived

before the arrival of white men.

There was no question about the Year 20. It was the Year of the Earthquake.

The old San Leandro Fault stirred again, and early one morning there was a

sharp jolt and the sound of falling chimneys. The houses in which they all

lived stood the shock, because George always kept them in excellent repair.

But the houses that had been weakened by termites or undermined by washing

water or damaged by rot came crashing down. After that there was hardly a

street which was not littered here and there with brick or with other

debris, and because of damage from the earthquake deterioration began to

accelerate.

The Year 21 Ish had thought they might call the Year of the Corriing of

Age. They now numbered thirty-six--seven of the older ones, Evie, twenty-one

of the second generation, and seven of the third. In the end, however, this

year was named, like many others, from a small incident .... Joey was one

of the twins, who were the youngest of the children born to Ish and Em. He

was a bright boy, though small for his age and not so good at play as some

of those who were even younger than he. He got a certain favoring from both

his father and mother, because he was, with his twin, the youngest. On the

whole, however, in such a large group of children, nobody had paid him any

great attention, and now he was nine years old. But just at the end of this

year, they suddenly discovered to their great amaze ment that Joey could

read--not only could read in the slow, halting way of the other children,

but could read quickly and accurately and with pleasure. Ish felt a sudden

warming of his heart toward the youngest son. This was the one in whom the

light of intellect really was still burning.

The other children also were much impressed, and so at the ceremony they

cried out that this should be called the Year When Joey Read.

*End of the inter-chapter called* Quick Years.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*2*

*The Year 22*

There must be in their social bond something singularly captivating, and

far superior to anything to be boasted of among us; for thousands of

Europeans are Indians, and we have no examples of even one of those

Aborigines having from choice become Europeans!

-- J. Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur, *Letters from an American Farmer*

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 1*

After the ceremony at the rock was over and the numerals 2 and 1 stood out

sharply and freshly cut on the smooth surface, the people started back

toward the houses. Most of the children scuttled ahead, calling back and

forth, eager with ideas about the bonfire which traditionally ended the New

Year celebration.

Ish walked beside Em, but they talked little. As always at the date-carving

Ish felt himself thinking deeper thoughts than usual and wondering what

would happen in the course of the year. He heard the children shouting out:

"Go to the old house that fell down; you can pull off lots of dry wood

there.... I think I can find a can of gasoline.... I know where there is

toilet paper; it burns fine."

The older people, as was the custom, gathered at Ish and Em's house, and

sat around for a little conversation. Since it was a time for festivity,

Ish opened some port, and they all drank toasts, even George, who

ordinarily did not drink. They agreed again, as they had at the rock, that

the Year 21 had been a good year and that the prospects for the coming one

were good also.

Yet in the midst of the general self-congratulation, Ish himself felt a

renewed sense of dissatisfaction.

"Why," he thought, feeling the words flow through his mind, as if he were

arguing aloud, "why should I be the one who in times like this always has

to start thinking ahead? Why am I the one that has to think, or'try to

think, five years or ten years, or twenty years into the future? I may not

even be *alive* then! The people who come after me--they will have to solve

their own problems."

Yet he knew, as he thought again, that this last was not altogether true

either. The people who live in any generation do much, he realized, either

to create or to solve the problems for the people who come in the

generations later.

In any case, he could not help wondering what would happen to The Tribe in

the years that were ahead. It worried him. After the Great Disaster, he had

thought that the people, if any survived at all, would soon be able to get

some things running again and proceed gradually toward re-establishing more

and more of civilization. He had even dreamed of a time when electric

lights might go on again. But nothing like that had happened, and the

community was still dependent upon the leavings of the past.

Now he looked around, as he had often looked before, at the ones who were

with him. They were, so to speak, the bricks out of which a new

civilization must be fashioned. There was Ezra, for instance. Ish felt

himself growing warm with the mere pleasure of friendship as he looked at

that thin ruddy face and pleasant smile, even though the smile showed the

bad teeth. Ezra had genius perhaps, but it was the genius of living on easy

and friendly terms with people, and not the creative drive that leads

toward new civilizations. No, not Ezra.

And there beside Ezra was George, good old George--heavy and shambling,

powerful still, though his hair had turned wholly gray. George was a good

man, too, in his fashion. He was a first-class carpenter, and had learned

to do plumbing and painting and the other odd jobs around the house. He was

a very useful man, and had preserved many basic skills. Yet Ish always knew

that George was essentially stupid; he had probably never read a book in

his life. No, not George.

Next to George, was Evie, the half-witted one. Molly kept her well groomed,

and Evie, blond and slender, was good-looking, if you could forget the

vacantness of her face. She sat there glancing right and left at whoever

was talking. She even gave an illusion of alertness, but Ish knew that she

was understanding little, perhaps nothing, of what was being said. She was

no foundation-stone for the future. Certainly, not Evie.

Then came Molly, Ezra's older wife. Molly was not a stupid person, but she

had had little education and could certainly not be called intellectual.

Besides, like the other women, she had expended her energy at bearing and

rearing children, and now five of hers were still alive. That was enough

contribution to ask of anyone. No, not Molly.

Beyond Molly, the next person was Em. When Ish looked at Em, so many

feelings boiled up within him that he knew any judgment he might try to

make of her would be of no value. She, alone, had made the first decision

to have a child. She had kept her courage and confidence during the

Terrible Year. She it was to whom they all turned in time of trouble. Some

strong power lodged within her, to affirm and never to deny. Without her

they might all have been as nothing. Yet, her power lay deep in the springs

of action; in a particular situation, though she might inspire courage and

confidence in others, she herself seldom supplied an idea. Ish knew that he

would always turn to her and that she was greater than he, but he also knew

that she would not be of help in planning toward the future. No--though it

seemed disloyalty to say so--not even Em!

Beyond Em, lolling on the floor, were Ralph and Jack and Roger, the three

who were still called boys, even though they themselves were married and

had children. Ralph was Molly's son who was married to Ish's daughter,

Mary; Jack and Roger were Ish's own sons. But as he looked at them now, Ish

felt very far from them, even though his connection by family was as close

as could well be. Though he was only some twenty years older, still he

seemed separated from them by centuries. They had not known the Old Times,

and so they could not look forward much and think how things might again be

in the future. No, probably not the boys either.

Ish's eyes had moved around the circle, and he was looking now at Jean,

Ezra's younger wife. She had borne ten children, and seven of them were

still alive. She had a mind of her own, as her refusal to join in the

church-services had shown. Still, she was not a person of new ideas. No,

not Jean.

As for Maurine, George's wife, she had not even bothered to come to the

gathering, but had gone directly from the rock to her own house, where she

would already be engaged at sweeping or dusting or some other of her

perpetual and beloved tasks of housewifery. Of all persons, certainly not

Maurine.

Three other adults also were not present. They were Mary, Martha, and young

Jeanie, who were married to the three boys. Mary had always seemed to Ish

the most stolid of all his children, and now with her own children coming

so fast, she grew a little more bovine, yearly. Martha and Jeanie also were

mothers, and motherhood was absorbing them. No, none of these.

Present and absent, twelve adults! He still had difficulty in realizing

that there was no vast reservoir of humanity from which to draw.

Half a dozen children were interspersed among the adults or circled around

restlessly on the outside of the circle. Instead of going to help with the

bonfire, these few had kept with the adults--half-bored, and yet apparently

thinking that such a large gathering of their elders was important and

should be watched. Ish let his attention shift to them, speculatively.

Sometimes they listened to what the older people were saying, and sometimes

they merely poked each other or scuffled. Yet, in them, careless as they

seemed, rested the hope. The older people could probably slide along on the

present arrangements as long as they lived, but the children might have to

adapt. Could any of them supply the spark?

And now, as he began to focus on the children, Ish saw that one of them was

not scuffling with any other, but was sitting there, steadily listening to

what the older ones were saying, his big eyes glancing back and forth with

a bright glow of intelligence and interest. This was Joey.

No sooner had Ish's eyes focused for a moment upon Joey, than Joey's

alertly wandering glance noticed the attention his father was giving him.

He squirmed with delight, and his face broke into the all-embracing grin of

a nine-year-old. Upon the impulse of the moment, Ish winked slyly at his

youngest son. Joey's grin could scarcely have become any broader than it

was, but in some way it seemed to spread. Ish caught the flutter of an

eyelid in return. Then, not to embarrass Joey, Ish turned his glance

elsewhere.

There was a slow argument going on among George and Ezra and the boys. Ish

had heard it all before, and was not enough interested to participate or

even to listen to all of it.

"One of them things don't weigh more'n four hundred pounds anyway, I

think," George was saying.

"Yes, maybe," Jack replied. "But just the same, that's a lot to lug up

here."

"Aw, that's not so much!" said Ralph, who was heavy-set and powerful, and

liked to show off his strength.

And so, thought Ish, the argument would go on, as he had heard it often

before, about whether it was possible to get a gas-refrigerator somewhere,

and set it up, and supply it with still charged tanks of pressurized gas,

and so have ice again. Yet, in the end, nothing would be done, not because

the project was impossible or even inordinately difficult, but merely

because everybody was fairly well contented with things as they were, and

in a region of notably cool summers there was no great drive which led

anyone to want to have ice. Yet, in a vague way, the old argument disturbed

him.

He let his gaze shift back to Joey. Joey was small, even for his age. Ish

enjoyed watching the little boy's face, the quick way in which his eyes

shifted from one speaker to another, never missing a point. In fact, Ish

could see that Joey often picked up the point of a sentence, even before

the speaker arrived at the end of it, especially with a slow speaker, like

old George. This must be, Ish reflected, a tremendous day for Joey. A year

had actually been named after him, the Year When Joey Read. No other child

had ever had any such honor as that. Perhaps it was even such a distinction

as to be bad for him. Yet, the idea had come spontaneously from the other

children, a tribute to sheer intellect.

The languid argument was still going on. George was talking now:

"No, there shouldn't be no great trick to connecting up the pipes."

"But, George," this voice was Ezra's with its quicker tempo and faint tone

of Yorkshire still noticeable after all these years, "has gas-pressure kept

up in those tanks of compressed gas? I should think, p'raps, after all this

time ......

Ezra's voice trailed off that moment at a sudden rumpus between two of the

children. Weston, Ezra's own twelve-year-old son, was engaged in a punching

contest with Betty, his half-sister.

"Stop it, Weston," Ezra snapped out. "Stop it, I say, or I'll warm your

pants for you!"

The threat did not carry conviction, and as far as Ish could remember, he

had never seen the easygoing Ezra punish a child. Nevertheless, at the

paternal order the scuffle subsided with no more than the conventional

protest from Weston, "Aw, Betty started it!"

"Yes, but what do you want ice for anyway, George?" This was Ralph

speaking. It was a natural and never-failing phase of the argument. The

boys, who had never known what it was to have ice, had no urge to make them

go to the work of obtaining it.

Ish was thinking to himself that George had been asked that question a

great many times in the course of this argument before. He really should

have had his answer ready, but George was not a quick thinker and was not a

man to be hurried. He shifted his tongue in his mouth, shaping words before

he actually set out to reply, and in the pause Ish again watched Joey. The

little boy's glance moved quickly from the hesitant George to Ezra and to

Jack, as if to see how those others were taking the pause; then Joey's eyes

sought his father's again. All at once there was a quick comradeship and

sense of understanding in the glance. Joey seemed to be saying that either

his father or he would find an answer quickly and not hesitate as George

was doing.

Then something exploded inside Ish's brain. He did not hear the words that

at last began to unroll slowly from George's mouth.

*"Joey!"* Ish was thinking-and the name seemed to reverberate all through

his consciousness. "Joey! *He is the one!"*

*"Thou knowest not," Koheleth wrote in his wisdom, "how the bones do grow

in the womb of her that is with child." And though the centuries have

passed since Koheleth looked upon all things and found them fickle as wind,

yet still we know little of what goes to the making of a man--least surely

of all, why usually there issue forth only those who see what is, and why

rarely, now and then, there comes forth among them the chosen one, Child of

the Blessing, who sees not what is, but sees what is not, and seeing thus

what is not, imagines also what may be. Yet without this rare one all men

are as beasts.*

*First in the dark depths and the flooding, those unlike halves must meet

that carry within them each the perfect half of genius. But that is not

all! Also the child must be born to the world in fitting time and place,

fulfilling its need. But even that is not all. Also the child must live, in

a world where death walks daily.*

*When each year children are born in millions, now and then the

infinitesimal chance will happen, and there will be greatness and vision.

But how will it be, if the people are broken and scattered, and the

children only a few? *

Then, almost without knowing what had happened, Ish found himself on his

feet. He was talking. In fact, he was making a speech. "Look here," he was

saying, "we've got to do something about all this. We've waited long

enough!"

As he stood there, he was only in his own living-room, and he was talking

only to the few people who were there. He knew that they were only a few,

and yet it seemed to him not so much as if he were talking just to these

few in this little room, but rather that he was in some great amphitheater

and talking to a whole nation or to all the people of the world.

"This has got to stop!" he said. "We mustn't go on living forever just in

this happy way, scavenging among all the supplies that the Old Times left

here for us, not creating or doing anything for ourselves. These things

will an give out some day-if not in our years, in our children's, or

grandchildren's. What will happen then? What will they do when they won't

know how to produce more things? Food, they can get, I suppose-there will

still be cattle and rabbits. But what about all the more complicated things

we enjoy? What, even, about building fires after the matches have all been

used, or spoiled?"

He paused, and looked around again. They all seemed pleased, and seemed to

be agreeing with him. Joey's face was transcendent with excitement.

"That refrigerator you were talking about just now, a of you!" Ish went on.

"That's an example. We talk about it, but we never do anything. We're like

that story-that old king in the old story-the one who sat enchanted and

everything moved around hun, but he could never make any move to break the

spell. I used to think we were just suffering from the shock of the Great

Disaster. Perhaps that was it, in those first days. When people have their

whole world go to pieces around them, they can't expect to make a fresh

start immediately. But that was twenty-one years ago, and many of us have

even been born since that time.

"There are lots of things we should do. We should get some more domestic

animals, not just dogs. We ought to be growing more of our own food now,

not just raiding the old grocery stores still. We ought to be teaching the

children to read and write more. (No one has ever supported me strongly

enough in that.) We can't go on scavenging like this forever--we must go

forward."

He paused, searching for words by which to point out to them the old truism

that unless we go forward we inevitably go back, but suddenly they all

applauded loudly, as if he had finished. He thought that he had really

swayed them by a sudden flood of eloquence, but then he realized, as he

looked around, that the applause was largely in good-natured irony.

"That's the fine old speech again, Dad," Roger remarked. Ish glared at him

angrily for a moment; having really been the leader of The Tribe for

twenty-one years, he did not like to have himself put down thus as merely

an old codger with some funny ideas. But then Ezra laughed good-naturedly,

and everybody joined in the laughter, and the tension fell off.

"Well, what are we going to do about it then?" Ish asked. "I may have made

the same speech before, but even if I have, it's true, nevertheless."

He paused expectantly. Then Jack, who was Ish's oldest son, unlimbered

himself from where he was lolling on the floor, and got to his feet. Jack

was taller and much more powerful than his father now; he was, himself, a

father.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he said, "but I've got to go."

"What's the matter? What is it?" Ish snapped back to him, a little

irritated.

"Well, nothing so very much, but there's something I have to do this

afternoon."

"Won't it wait?"

Jack was already moving toward the door.

"I suppose it might wait," he said, as he put his hand on the door knob.

"But I think I'd better be going anyway."

There was silence for a moment, except for the sounds of the door opening,

and shutting, as Jack went out. Ish felt himself suddenly angry, and he

knew that his face was flushed.

"Go on talking, Ish," Ish heard the voice, and knew through his anger that

it was Ezra's. "We would like to hear just what you think we ought to do;

you have the ideas." Yes, it was Ezra's voice, and Ezra as usual was saying

something quickly to cover up the difficulty and make people feel better.

He was even flattering Ish.

Nevertheless, at the voice, Ish relaxed. Why should he be angry with Jack

for acting independently? He should, rather, be happy. Jack was a grown man

now, no longer a little boy and merely a son. The flush faded from Ish's

face, but still he felt a profound sense of trouble within him, and he was

led on to talk more. If the incident could do nothing else, at least it

could supply him with a text.

"This business with Jack right here now, that's something I want to talk

about, too. We've drifted along all these years not doing anything about

producing our own food and getting civilization back into some kind of

running-order, as regards all the material things. That's one matter, and

an important one, but it isn't the only one. Civilization wasn't just only

gadgets and how to make them and run them. It was all sorts of social

organization too--all sorts of rules, and laws, and ways of life, among

people and groups of people. The family--that's all we have left of a that

organization! That's natural, I suppose. But the family can't be enough

when there get to be more people. When a little child does something we

don't like, the father and mother correct it, and bring it into line. But

when one of the children grows up, that's all over. We haven't any laws--we

aren't a democracy, or a monarchy, or a dictatorship, or anything. If

someone--Jack, for instance--wants to walk out on what seems to be a kind of

important meeting, nobody can stop him. Even if we take a vote here and

decide to do something, even then, there's no means of enforcement--oh, a

little public opinion, perhaps, but that's all."

He had trailed off to a lame ending, rather than coming to a conclusion. He

had been speaking more from the emotional drive that Jack's move had

aroused in him. He was not a trained orator, and had certainly no practice.

Yet, as he looked around, he saw that the speech had apparently made a very

good impression. Ezra was the one who spoke first.

"Yes, you bet!" he said. "Don't you remember all of those wonderful times

we used to have back in those days. Golly, what wouldn't I give just now to

be over there with George's big radio and turn it right on and hear Charlie

McCarthy again! Don't you remember the way that little guy would talk,

making fun of the other guy, whatever his name was, you know, and here that

other one was just the same as him all the time."

Ezra took out the big Victorian penny that had served him for a

pocket-piece during all these years. He tossed it back and forth from one

hand to the other in sheer stimulation at the thought of hearing Charlie

McCarthy again.

"Yes, you remember too," he went on. "Why, you used to be able to go down

to the picture-house and pay your money and go right in! And you would hear

all that music going with the film, and see--oh, maybe--Bob Hope or Dotty

Lamour. Yes, those were the days all right! Do you suppose that p'raps if

we all got together and worked hard we could find some of those films and

rig them up to show them to all the kids? I can just hear them laughing.

Maybe we could get a Charlie Chaplin film somewhere!"

Ezra took out a cigarette and a match, and as he scratched the match it

broke into a bright flame. Matches never seemed to deteriorate if they were

in a fairly dry place. Yet nobody knew how to make matches, and at every

sudden spurt of flame there was one match the fewer. Ish had a strange

feeling about Ezra, who was thinking of civilization chiefly as the return

of motion-pictures, and at the same time was scratching a match. George was

the one who spoke next:

"If there was any way of making people help me, just one or two of the

boys, I could get that gas-refrigerator fixed up and working in two, three

days, maybe."

George stopped speaking, and Ish supposed that he had finished, for George

was never much of a talker. Surprisingly, he went on:

"About those there laws, though, that you was talking about. I don't know.

I was kind of glad that we live in a place where we don't have no laws.

These days, you can do just about the way you want. You can go out and park

your car anywhere you want to. Right by a fire-hydrant, maybe, and nobody's

going to give you a ticket, that is, you could park it right by the

fire-hydrant if you had a car that would run."

This was as far in the way of a joke as Ish had ever heard George go, and

George responded to his own humor by chuckling quietly. The others all

joined in. The standard of humor in The Tribe, Ish realized, had never been

very high.

Ish was about to say something more, but Ezra spoke again.

"Come on, now, I propose a toast," he said. "To *law and order!"* The older

people laughed a little at hearing the old phrase again, but to the younger

ones it meant nothing.

They drank the toast, and then everything slipped back quite naturally into

merely a social occasion again.

After all, Ish reflected, it was a social occasion, just as well perhaps,

not to let business interfere too much. Perhaps the seed he had planted

with this rendition of his impassioned little speech would have some effect

in the future. Yet, he felt doubts. You used to have the jokes about never

fixing the roof until it rained. People were undoubtedly the same now, or

worse. They might well wait until something happened that forced them to

act; that something would almost certainly be unpleasant--most likely,

serious.

Yet he drank the toast with the others, and with half his mind he listened

to the talk. With the other half, nevertheless, he still kept to his own

thoughts. This had been a good day; yes, on this day he had carved 21 into

the smooth surface of the rock, and the Year 22 had begun; on this day,

also, partly because the year had been named as it was, he had become more

conscious of the possibilities in his youngest son.

He glanced to where Joey was sitting, and caught in return a quick bright

glance, full of the small boy's admiration for his father. Yes, perhaps,

there was one at least who could understand fully.

*In all that immense and complex system of dams and tunnels, aqueducts and

reservoirs, by which water was brought from the mountains to the cities,

one particular section of steel pipe in the main aqueduct supplied the

fatal flaw. Even at the time of its manufacture certain imperfections had

been apparent. It had happened, however, to go past the inspector just at

the close of a day, when his senses were dulled and his judgment impaired.*

*No great harm resulted. The section of pipe was set into place by the

workmen, and fiinctioned without difficulty. Shortly before the Great

Disaster, a foreman had noticed that this section had developed a slight

leak. By the welding of a patch upon it, however, it would be made as good

as new, or even stronger than the average.*

*Then through the years no man passed that way again. A little trickle of

water from the faulty section of pipe grew very gradually larger. Even in

the dry summers a small patch Of green showed by the dripping pipe; birds

and small animals came there to drink. And still rust ate from the outside,

and from the inside the corrosive action of the water itself slowly bored

outward to meet the rust pits, piercing pinprick after pinprick in the

tough skin of steel.*

*Five years, ten years-now a dozen jets of fine spray played from the

surface of the pipe. Now the puddle was a drinking-place for cattle.*

*In five more years a little stream ran off from beneath, the only summer

stream in all that dry foothill region. By now the pipe was beginning to be

honey-combed with rust, its actual structure grown weak.*

*Beneath the pipe the ground had long been soft and muddy, and the tramping

of animals had aided the erosion of a little gully. Finally, the erosion

was sufficient to start a mudflow in the soft wet soil on which the

concrete pier rested, the one which supported the pipe with its heavy load

of water. As the pier settled, the weight of the water was thrown upon the

weakened pipe. A long rent opened in its rust-riddled steel, and a broad

stream of water poured out and gushed down into the gully. This torrent

soon undermined thefooting still more, and it shifted again. Once more the

pipe tore, and the stream of water issuing from it became like a small

river. *

Just as Ish had crawled into bed that evening the sharp crack of a rifle

shot brought him sitting full upright, tense. Another resounded, and then a

fusillade began popping in the night.

He felt the bed shaking gently, as Em laughed quietly beside him. He

relaxed. "Same old trick!" he said.

"Fooled you badly this time!"

"I've been thinking too much about all the future today, I suppose. Yes, I

suppose my nerves are stirred up a little too much today."

The fusillade was still popping in a good imitation of guerrilla warfare,

but he lay down and tried to relax. He knew now what had happened. After

everyone had left the bonfire, one of the boys had sneaked back and thrown

a few boxes of cartridges into the hot ashes. As soon as the boxes were

burned through and things became hot enough, the cartridges had let loose.

Like most practical jokes it involved a certain element of risk, but at

this time of year the grass was green, and there was no danger of starting

a fire. Also, most of the people had been warned in advance or knew what

was likely to happen and so would be sure to keep a long way from the hot

ashes. Indeed, Ish reconsidered, he himself might have been the particular

object of this joke, and everyone else might have known about it.

All right! If so, he was successfully baited. He felt a sense of

irritation, but for more serious reasons, he thought, than because he had

been fooled. "Well," he said to Em, "there they go again--more boxes of

cartridges popping off uselessly, and no one left in the world who knows

how to make cartridges! And here we are in a country overrun with

mountain-lions and wild bulls, and cartridges the only way we have of

keeping them under control, and for food we don't know how to kill cattle

or rabbits or quail except by shooting them."

Em seemed to have nothing to say, and in the pause his mind ranged

petulantly over the events of the bonfire itself. That fire had been built

up largely out of sawed timber brought from a lumber-yard, interspersed

with cartons of toilet paper, which burned beautifully because of the holes

through the middle. In addition, boxes of matches had been scattered

through the fire because they went up with fine flares, and there had also

been cans of alcohol and cleaning-fluid to give further zest. Doubtless, if

you had had to buy all those materials with money, the bonfire would have

cost ten thousand dollars in the Old Times; now, those materials might be

considered even more valuable, because they had come to be completely

irreplaceable.

"Don't worry, dearest," he heard her say now. "It's time to go to sleep."

He settled down beside her, his head close against her breast, seeming as

always to draw strength and confidence from her.

"I'm not worrying much, I suppose," he said. "Maybe I really enjoy all

this, feeling a little lugubrious about the future, as if we were living

dangerously."

He lay still for a moment more, and she said nothing, and then he went on

with his thinking aloud.

"Do you remember I've been saying this a long time now, that we have to

live more creatively, not just as scavengers? It's bad for us, I think,

even psychologically. Why, I was saying this way back even at the time when

Jack was going to be born."

"Yes, I remember. You've said it a great many times, and yet, some way or

other, it still seems easier just to keep on opening cans as long as there

are plenty of cans in the grocery stores and warehouses."

"But the end will come some time. Then, what will people do?"

"Well, I suppose, whatever people there are then--they will just have to

solve that problem for themselves.... And, dear, I've *always* wished you

wouldn't worry so much about it. Things would be different if you had a lot

of people who were like you, that thought about things a long way off. But

all you have are usual people like Ezra and George and me. And we don't

think that way. Darwin--wasn't that his name?--said that we all came from

apes or monkeys or something, and I suppose apes and monkeys and things

like that never thought much about the future. If we'd come from bees or

ants, we might have planned out things ahead, or even if we had been

trained like squirrels to store up nuts for the winter."

"Yes, maybe. But in the Old Times people thought about the future. Look at

the way they built up civilization."

"And they had Dotty--what was *her* name?--and Charlie McCarthy, just like

Ezra says." Then suddenly she went off on another tangent. "And about all

this scavenging business that worries you so much! Is it so very different

from what people used to do? If you want some copper now, you go down to

one of the hardware stores, and find a little copper wire, and take that

and hammer it up. In the Old Times, they just went and dug some copper out

of a hill somewhere. It maybe was copper ore and not just copper, but still

they were scavenging in a way, for it was there all the time. And as far as

the food goes, they grew it by using up what was stored in the ground, and

changing that into wheat. We just take most of our stuff out of what is

stored up somewhere else. I don't know that there's too much difference!"

The argument stopped him for a moment. Then he rallied. "No, that's not

just right either," he said. "At least, they were *more* creative than we

are. They were a going concern. They produced what they used as they went

along."

"I'm not too sure about that," she said. "It seems to me I can remember

reading even in cheap things like the Sunday supplements that we were

always just at the point of running out of copper or oil, or were

exhausting the soil so we wouldn't have anything to live on in the future."

Then from long experience, he knew that she was wanting to go to sleep. He

gave her the last word, and said nothing more. But he himself lay awake,

his thoughts still running fast. He remembered clear back to times just

after the Great Disaster when he had thought of ways in which civilization

might again start to go. Then he remembered how he had thought of change

itself-how sometime it comes from the inside of a man, reacting outward

against the environment, and how sometimes the environment presses in

against the man, forcing him to change. Only the unusual man perhaps was

strong enough to press outward against the world.

And from thinking of the unusual man, he went naturally to thinking of

little Joey, the bright one with the quick eyes, the only one who seemed to

follow all the things that Ish had been saying. He tried to guess what Joey

would be like when he grew older, and he thought how some day he might be

able to talk to Joey. He imagined the words.

"You and I, Joey," he would say, "we are alike, we understand! Ezra and

George and the others, they are good people. They are good solid average

people, and the world couldn't get along without having lots of them, but

they have no spark. We have to give the spark!"

Then from thinking of Joey, who was at the top, his mind ran rapidly

through the others, ending with Evie, who was at the bottom. Should they

have even kept Evie all these years? He wondered. There had been a

word--euthanasia, wasn't it?---for that kind of thing. "Mercy-killing," they

called it sometimes. Yet who was qualified in a group like this to take the

responsibility of removing someone like Evie, even though she was probably

no source of happiness to herself nor to anyone else? To do anything like

that, he realized, they would have to have a power much stronger than the

mere authority of an American father over his children, much stronger than

that of the group of friends exercising a mild public opinion. Something

would happen some time, not necessarily about Evie of course. But something

*would* happen some time, and then they would have to organize and take

stronger action.

His imagination stirred him so powerfully that he made a quick movement of

his body, as if already he were taking countermeasures against whatever it

was that might have happened.

Either Em had not been asleep, or else his sudden movement waked her.

"What is it, dearest?' she said. "You jumped like some little dog that

dreams it's chasing a lion!"

"Something's going to happen some time!" he said, speaking as if she

already knew the course of his thoughts.

"Yes, I know," she said--and apparently she *did* know his thoughts. "And

we're going to have to do something. 'Organize' I think is the word. We're

going to have to do something about what has happened."

"You knew what I was thinking?"

"Well, you've said the same thing before, you know. You've said it very

often. Especially around New Years you say it. George talks about the

refrigerator, and you talk about something going to happen. Some way or

other, nothing has happened yet."

"Yes, but some time it will. It's bound to! Some year I'll be right."

"All right, dearest. Go on worrying. You're probably the kind that don't

feel comfortable unless you've got something to worry about--and that

particular worry, I guess, won't do you much harm."

She said nothing more, but she reached over and took him into her arms, and

held him close. From the touch of her body, as always, he took comfort, and

so he slept.

*From the broken pipe of the aqueduct the water had now been gushing out

like a small river during a period of several weeks. No more water flowed

on into the reservoirs. At the same time, from thousands of leaks which had

developed through the course of the years, from the many faucets left

running at the time of the Great Disaster, from the major breaks occurring

at the time of the earthquake--from all of them, the stored water ran out

from the reservoirs, and their levels fell steadily.*

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 2*

As Ish had expected, they did nothing. Weeks passed. There was no heaving

and grunting of men as they carried the refrigerator up the hill, no click

and crunch of spades preparing a garden plot. Ish worried occasionally, but

in general life drifted along, and even he could not be much concerned.

With his old student's habit of observing even when he did not participate,

he often wondered just what might be happening.

Was it really, as he sometimes imagined, that all the individuals were

still suffering under a kind of shock as the result of the sudden

destruction of their old society? His studies in anthropology supplied him

with examples--the head-hunters and the plains Indians, who had lost the

will to readjust and even the will to live, after their traditional way of

life had rudely been made impossible. If they could no longer go

head-hunting or ride out to steal horses and take scalps, they had no

desire for anything else either. Or, with a mild climate and food-supplies

easy to obtain, was there now simply no stimulus to change? He could

recollect possible examples of this kind also--some of the South Sea

islanders, or those tropical peoples who. lived chiefly on bananas. Or was

it something else?

Fortunately, he had enough background of philosophy and history to.keep his

perspective. He was actually, he realized, struggling to solve a problem

which had baffled philosophers from the time when they had first become

conscious of problems at all. He was facing the basic question of the

dynamics of society. What made a society change? He, as a student, was more

fortunate than Koheleth or Plato or Malthus or Toynbee. He saw a society

reduced in size until it had attained the simplicity of a laboratory

experiment. Yet, whenever he had arrived at this stage of argument, another

thought cut across and disturbed the simplicity. He began to feel himself

less scientific but more human, to think more nearly as Em thought. This

society along San Lupo Drive was not really,a philosopher's neat microcosm,

a small dip out of the general ocean of humanity. No--it was a group of

individuals. It was Ezra and Em and the boys--yes, and Joey! Change the

individuals, and the whole situation changed. Change even one individual!

In the place of Em, if we had had--well, say, Dotty Lamour? Or, instead of

George, one of those high-powered minds that he remembered from his

University years--Professor Sauer, perhaps! Again the situation would

change.

Or would it? Possibly not, for in the test the physical environment might

be stronger, and might force the aberrant individuals into its mould.

But in one detail Ish thought that Em was wrong. She did not need to fear

that he was worrying too much about the situation and would end up with

ulcers or a neurosis. Instead, his observation of what was happening kept

him interested in life. At first, just after the Great Disaster, he had

devoted himself to observing the changes in the world as the result of the

disappearance of man. After twenty-one years, however, the world had fairly

well adjusted itself, and further changes were too slow to call for

day-to-day or even month-to-month observation. Now, however, the problem of

society--its adjustment and reconstitution--had moved to the fore, and become

his chief interest.

Then at this point in the recurrent course of his thinking he always had to

correct himself again. He could not, and should not, be merely the observer

and student. Plato and the others--each of them could merely watch and

comment, even cynically, if he so felt. Through his writings he might

influence future generations, but he himself was in no appreciable way

responsible for the growth and development of the society in which he

lived. Only now and then had the scholar also become the ruler--Marcus

Aurelius, Thomas More, Woodrow Wilson. To be sure, Ish realized that he

himself was not a ruler exactly, but he was the man of ideas, the thinker,

in a community of only a few individuals. Necessarily the others turned to

him in their rare times of trouble, and if any real emergency should arise,

he would almost certainly have to assume leadership.

The thought had already in the course of the years sent him to the City

Library after books about scholars who had also become rulers. Their fates

were not comforting. Marcus Aurelius had worn himself out, body and soul,

in bloody and fruitless campaigns on the Danube frontier. Thomas More had

gone to the scaffold, and afterwards, ironically, he had been canonized as

a martyr of the Church. The biographers often called Wilson a martyr also,

although no Church of Peace had made him St. Woodrow. No, the scholar in

power had not prospered notably. Yet he, Ish, in a community which even yet

numbered only thirty-six people, was so placed that he probably could wield

more influence in the shaping of its future than an emperor or a chancellor

or a president in the Old Times.

*Heavy rains in the week after New Years had slowed the falling of the

water level in the reservoir. Then, a little earlier than usual, came the

mid-winter dry spell.*

*Like the blood of some leviathan oozing from a hundred thousand pinpricks,

the life-giving water flowed away through open faucets and leaking joints

and broken pipes.*

*And now, where the still-standing gauge showed that the depth had recently

been twenty feet, only a thin skin of water covered the bottom of the

reservoir. *

When Ish woke up that morning, he realized that it was a fine sunny day,

and that he had slept well and was rested. Em was gone from the bed, and he

heard the familiar little sounds from downstairs which meant that breakfast

would soon be ready. He lay still for a few minutes, thoroughly enjoying

himself, coming back more slowly than usual to full consclousness. He felt

it a very fortunate circumstance to be able to lie in bed a little while

longer if you wished, not merely on Sunday morning, but on any morning.

There was no sharp looking at clocks, in the life that they lived now, and

no need for him or for anyone else, to catch the 7:53 train. He was living

a life of greater freedom than anyone could possibly have lived in the Old

Times. Perhaps, with his special temperament he was even living more

happily now than he could have lived then.

When he felt ready, he got up and shaved. There was no hot water, but he

did not care about that particularly. As a matter of fact, nobody would

have minded if he had not shaved at all, but he liked the sense of

cleanliness and stimulation that the shave gave him.

He dressed--a new sport shirt and a pair of blue jeans. He stuck his feet

into some comfortable slippers, went slopping down stairs, and steered

toward the kitchen.

As he came to the door, he heard Em say, rather more sharply than she was

used to speak, "Josey child, why don't you turn that faucet farther, so you

can really get some water?"

"But, Mommie, it *is* turned on, as hard as I can turn it."

Ish, coming into the kitchen, saw that Josey was holding the tea-kettle in

the sink under the faucet, and that only a trickle of water was running.

"Morning!" he said. "I guess I'll have to get George to come over and fix

up that plumbing a little bit. Josey, why don't you run out into the

garden, and get some water from one of the outside faucets?"

Josey trotted off agreeably, and when she was gone, Ish took the

opportunity to kiss Em, and to tell her what he was planning for the day.

Josey was gone for a little while, and then came back with the kettle full.

"The water out there ran faster for a little while, and then it just died

out to a trickle, too," she said, setting the kettle on the gasoline stove.

"That's a nuisance!" said Em. "We'll need more water for washing the

dishes."

Ish recognized the tone of voice. This was one of the times when a crisis

was laid directly at the feet of the menfolk to do something about.

Breakfast was served on the dining-room table, and the table looked just

about the way it might have looked in the Old Times. Ish sat at one end,

and Em at the other. They had only four children at home now. Robert, who

was sixteen, and almost fully grown up, according to the standards of The

Tribe, sat on one side. Beside him was Walt, who was twelve, and very big

and active for his age. And on the other side, close to the kitchen door,

sat Joey and Josey, part of whose work was to help with breakfast, by

aiding with the cooking and setting of the table, and running in and out to

wait on table and helping to wash the dishes afterwards.

As he sat down, Ish could not help thinking how little this particular

scene differed from what it might have been in the Old Times. To be sure,

he would never have expected then to be the father of so many children.

But, granting the numbers, the family group was just what it might have

been at any time in almost any society--father, mother, and children,

tightly grouped to form the basic social unit, so basic in fact that it

might be considered biological rather than social. After all, he thought,

the family was the toughest of all human institutions. It had preceded

civilization, and so it naturally survived afterwards.

There was grapefiruit-juice, out of cans, of course. Ish had long since

begun to doubt seriously whether after all this time there was anything

valuable in the way of vitamins left in canned juices. Even the taste had

gone flat. But they continued drinking it, because it felt good on the

stomach, even though there might not be any vitamins, and at worst it

probably was doing them no harm. There were no eggs, because there had been

no hens since the Great Disaster. There was no bacon, either, because

canned or, glassed bacon was hard to find now and there were no pigs in

this vicinity, as far as they had ever discovered. But they had beef-ribs,

braised and well browned, which were a fairly good substitute for bacon,

even to Ish's taste. The children, of course, liked nothing better. In

fact, they made the principal part of their breakfast on the beef-ribs

because they had grown up being largely meat-eaters and expecting or

wanting little else. Ish and Em, on the contrary, had always been used to

having toast or cereal, and now that the rats and weevils had ruined all

flour and packaged cereals, they had hominy, from cans, cooked up so as to

be something like a breakfast-food. They ate it with canned milk and to

sweeten it there was white corn-syrup, because lately they had been unable

to find any sugar that rats and weather had spared. The grownups also had

coffee. Ish used milk and com-syrup in his; Em had always preferred hers

black and unsweetened anyway. The vacuum-packed coffee, like the grapefruit

juice, had lost much of its flavor.

They had settled gradually upon this menu as their standard one for

breakfast. Except perhaps for lack of vitamins, it seemed to offer a fairly

well balanced meal, and to supply vitamins they had fresh fruit whenever

they could find any, though now that blight and insects and rabbits had

ruined the orchards, there was little fruit to be had, except for wild

strawberries and blackberries, a few wormy apples, and some sour plums from

trees gone wild. On the whole, however, Ish found it a satisfying

breakfast.

After he had finished, Ish slumped into an easy-chair in the living room,

picked a cigarette from the humidifier, and lighted it. But the cigarette

was not very satisfactory. They were no longer able to find vacuum-packed

ones, and the ordinary ones had dried out almost completely in the packages

now, no matter how well sealed. You had to keep them in the humidifier a

while to get them decently smokable, and then the trouble was that you were

likely to get them even too damp. That was what was wrong with this one.

And then also, he could not quite enjoy the cigarette because his

conscience was bothering him. From the kitchen he could hear uncertain

sounds from Em and the twins, and he gathered that they were still having

trouble getting water.

"Might as well go over," he thought, "and see George, and get him to clean

out that pipe or whatever it is." He got up and went out.

On the way to George's, however, he stopped at Jean's house to pick up

Ezra-not that Ezra could fix anything, or that he needed Ezra for any

negotiation with George, but just because he always liked to see Ezra. He

knocked, and Jean came to the door.

"Ez is not here now," she said. "He's over at Molly's this week." Ish had

the ftumy feeling that he often had when fac Ing the actual practice of

bigamy. He did not exactly see how Jean and Molly kept on such good terms,

and even helped each other out in all the little emergencies of

housekeeping. It was merely another triumph of Ezra's at getting along with

human beings and making them get along with each other. Ish turned to go,

and then he recollected, and looked back.

"Oh, Jean," he said. "Say, is your water running all right this morning?"

"Why, no," said Jean. "No, it isn't. There's just a little trickle coming

out."

She closed the door, and Ish went down the porch steps and headed for

Molly's house. He felt a sudden little chill of apprehension.

He picked up Ezra at Molly's, and discovered that she at least had had no

difficulty with water. That, however, might be the result of her house

being several feet lower than Jean's so that the water might not yet have

run out of the pipes.

They went over to George's house, which stood neat and trim inside its

freshly painted white picket-fence. Maurine showed them into the

living-room, and told therif to sit down while she went to get George, who

was puttering around somewhere as usual. Ish sat down in one of the big

velourcovered overstuffed chairs. Then, as always, he looked around the

living-room with a sense of amazement, mingled with an almost perverted

pleasure. The living-roorn in George and Maurine's house looked exactly the

way the living-room of any prosperous carpenter would have looked back in

the years before the Great Disaster. There were bridge-lamps with pink

shades, and tassels hanging from them. There was a very expensive electric

clock, and a magnificent console radio-phonograph, which had four different

bands of reception. There was also a television set. On both tables were

scarves carefully crumpled up to give an elegant look to things, and on one

table were neat piles of several popular magazines.

The bridge-lamps did not work, because there was no electricity, and the

hands of the electric clock always stood at 12:17. The magazines were at

least twenty-one years old. There were no programs on the air for the radio

to pick up, even if there had been any electric current by which the radio

and the phonograph could run.

Yet all these things were the symbols of prosperity. George had been a

carpenter in the Old Times. Maurine had then been married to a man who must

have been about the social and financial equal of George. Such people

always wanted to have fine bridge-lamps and electric clocks and radios and

all the rest, and now that it was possible to have all these things, they

had merely gone out and got them and put them into the house. Their not

working was secondary. In the evening Maurine merely brought in a kerosene

lamp, and stood it on the table and they got their light from it instead of

from the bridge-lamps, and they had a wind-up phonograph for actual use. It

was ridiculous, and also a little pitiful. Yet, when Ish considered the

matter, he always remembered Em's first reaction to it.

"Well," she had said, "don't you remember in the Old Times people would

have a piano, maybe a grand piano, in the living-room, even though nobody

could play it? And they had a set of those books-what did they call

them?-the Harvard Classics, though they never read them. And maybe they had

a fireplace that never even -had a chimney attached to it. All those things

were just to show off that you could afford them. They were proof that you

had arrived. So I don't see much difference now if George and Maurine want

to have their bridge-lamps, even if they can't get any light from them."

They heard George coming in from the back, and then his bulky form filled

the doorway. He held a pipe-wrench in one hand, and was wearing his usual

costume of carpenter's overalls, rather dirty and well stained with paint

smears. He could have used new overalls every day, but apparently he felt

more comfortable in ones that were well broken in.

"Hi, George," said Ezra, who usually managed to say the first word.

"G'morning, George," said Ish.

George seemed to chew his tongue for a moment, as if really considering

what the situation demanded. Then he said: "Morning, Ish.... Morning,

Ezra."

"Say, George," said Ish. "No water over at Jean's or at our place this

morning. How about here?" There was a pause.

"None here, neither," said George.

"Well," said Ish, "what do you make of it?"

George hesitated, working his mouth and lips, as if he were chewing the end

of an imaginary cigar. Ish felt a sense of irritation at George's

lumpishness. Yet he reflected, controlling himself, that George was a solid

person and a very good one to have around.

"Well," he repeated, "what do you make of it, George?"

George made a motion as if to put the imaginary cigar into one comer of his

mouth, and then he replied. "Well, if she's off over there too, I guess

there's no use looking any more for some block in my pipes around here, way

I was. I guess she's broke or clogged up somewheres on the main pipe that

comes to all these houses."

Ish caught a sidelong glance from Ezra, and a ghost of a smile on his face

as much as to say that after all any of them might have figured that out

and that George's pronouncement was not exactly the word of a mental giant.

"I guess you must be right, George," Ish said. "But what are we going to do

about it?"

George shifted the imaginary cigar again, and then spoke: "Well, I dunno."

Like Em, George obviously considered this to be out of his province. Give

him a dripping faucet or a plugged toilet, and he would be happy taking

care of it for you. But he was no mechanic, and certainly no engineer. So,

as it always happened, Ish had to fake the lead.

"Where did all this water come from anyway?" he asked on the impulse.

The others both were silent. It was curious. Here they had been for

twenty-one years merely using water that continued to flow, and yet they

had never given any real consideration to where the water came from. It had

been a gift from the past, as free as air, like the cans of beans and

bottles of catsup that could be had just by walking into a store and taking

them from the shelves. Ish indeed had vaguely thought about the matter

sometimes, and wondered how long the water would continue to run, and even

considered vaguely what they should do to develop another supply. But he

had never got round to doing anything. Water which had already run for many

years might well continue to run for many years more, and so there was no

pressure for action. In all those years there had never been one single

day, until this one, when there had been any immediate reason why he should

say to himself. "Today I must do something about the water-supply."

So now Ish glanced from George to Ezra, and had no response to his

question. George merely stood, shifting weight from one foot to the other.

Ezra had a little twinkle in his eyes, to indicate that this was not his

department. Ezra knew people. When he had clerked in that liquor-store he

must have been good at jollying his customers along and making tie-in

sales. But when it came to handling ideas and things, Ish was better than

Ezra. Ish saw that he would have to answer his own question.

"This water must come from the old city water-system, somewhere," he said.

"Must *have* come, I mean. The old pipes are still there. I think the best

thing for us to do would be to go up to the reservoir and see whether there

is any water in that."

"O.K.," said Ezra, agreeable as ever. "Maybe, though, we should see what

the boys think about it."

"No," said Ish. "They won't know anything about it. If it was a question of

hunting or fishing, we could ask the boys. But the boys wouldn't know

anything about this."

They went out and began calling the dogs, and getting ready to harness up

the teams to the wagons. The reservoir was not more than a mile away, but

ever since he had been mauled by the mountain-lion, Ish was not good at

long walks, and George was beginning to suffer from the stiffness of old

age in his legs. Getting the dogs together and making everything ready

always took some time. At moments like these, Ish regretted that

horse-taming had come to be a lost art. There were no wild horses left in

the immediate vicinity, but he was sure that they could find plenty of them

farther east in the open plains country of die San Joaquin Valley. But the

trouble really was that all three men had been city-people who were used to

driving automobiles; not one of them really knew, anything about

horse-keeping or horse-managing, and so they had never made the effort to

keep horses. Actually, the dogs were in many ways more convenient because

they demanded little care, and fed on the less choice cuts of the many

cattle which could be killed easily in the surrounding country. But to have

horses, you would have had to see that they were kept on good pasture, and

protected from wolves and lions. So on the whole, now that automobiles were

difficult to keep running, the dog-teams were probably the simplest answer

to their modest requirements for transportation, and George was very happy

to make the little wagons and keep them in repair. It had taken Ish years

to get over the feeling, when he was driving in one of the wagons behind

four dogs, that he was acting in some kind of ridiculous pageant, and made

a ludicrous spectacle. But, of course, no one else felt the same, and he

had gradually come to accept the situation. After all, people had thought

it natural to have dogs pull sleds. Why not wagons?

They left the dog-teams at the foot of the final slope, and climbed up

along the old path, breaking their way through thick blackberry bushes.

They stood at the edge of the reservoir, and looked across its empty

expanse. There was a little skim of water in two or three low spots, but

the outlet-pipe stood up into the air. They took a long look, and it was

Ezra who spoke at last:

"That's that!"

They discussed the possibilities a little, but without much interest or

conviction. They were already half way through the rainy season, so that

there was little possibility that rainfall would put water into the

reservoir again. They went down the path, picked up the dog-teams, and

started home.

As they neared the houses, the dogs began to bark, and the house-dogs

barked back at them. Everyone had time to assemble at Ish's house to hear

the news. When they had heard it, the older people looked so glum that the

children caught the infection, and one little fellow, who was probably too

young to understand anything actually, began to cry. In the babble of

conversation it soon became evident that no one was much worried about

actual thirst, but that the women were greatly concerned that the toilets

would no longer work. They did not mind this one day, but it was the

thought that they would never work again! It seemed that all life had taken

a step backward.

Only Maurine accepted the situation philosophically. "I growed up my first

eighteen years on the old farm in South Dakota," she said. "I run out to

the outhouse, all kinds of weather, and I never seen a flusher except maybe

when we was in town on Saturdays. That was one of the things I liked best

when pappy piled us into the old Chevy and we went to California. But I

always felt it wouldn't last, and I'd end up, a-runnin' out in all

weathers, way I began. Rushers was nice. But it's all over now, and I say,

'Thank the good Lord the weather ain't so cold here as in South Dakota.'"

The older men were more concerned with the problem of drinking-water. At

first, like the confirmed city-dwellers that they had been, they thought in

terms of finding where supplies of bottled water had been left in the

stores and warehouses. But soon they saw that even in the approaching dry

season, there could be no real lack of water. In spite of the long rainless

summer, the area was not a desert, and the little streams in the gullies,

though no one had ever paid much attention to them, must actually be

supplying the water for all the cattle and the other animals which wandered

in the region.

Just at this point, a distinction between the older generation and the

younger began to show itself. Ish, in spite of having been a geographer,

could not have told off-hand where there was a single spring or dependable

stream in the neighborhood, although he could still locate positions by

names of streets and intersections. The youngsters, on the other hand,

could quickly tell him where there was a stream of running water at this

season of the year, or where there would be pools of water, or where there

were springs. They could not locate these places by reference to streets,

but they could tell in general where they were, and could go to them

without hesitation. Ish suddenly found himself being instructed by his own

son Walt, who assured him that at this season of year there would be

running water in a little gully which Ish had scarcely ever noticed because

it flowed through under San Lupo Drive by means of a storm drain.

Before long, the original consternation changed to a kind of warm

excitement. Some of the youngsters were sent off with the dog-teams and

some five-gallon cans to bring back water from the nearest spring. The

older ones began to dig holes vigorously, and to set up outhouses.

The enthusiasm lasted for several hours, and resulted in a noticeable

amount of work. Steady pick-and-shovel labor, however, was something to

which no one was accustomed, and by noon there was widespread complaint

about blisters and weariness. When they separated for lunch, Ish suddenly

became aware that no one was coming back for work. It was amazing how many

important matters seemed to be planned for that afternoon--such as going

fishing, and wiping out an ugly-acting bull who might prove dangerous, and

shooting a mess of quail for dinner. Besides, by now the enthusiastic

youngsters had brought in a supply of water which was plentiful for all

immediate needs of drinking and cooking. The difference between having a

small water-supply and no water at all was tremendous, psychologically. A

five-gallon can sitting in the kitchen-sink took away all sense of strain.

After lunch Ish again relaxed with a cigarette. He was not going to go out

and dig by himself. As the story-books told things, this would have been

setting a noble example. Practically, it would make him look ridiculous.

Little Joey came, and stood nervously for a moment on his left foot with

his right leg bent at the knee, and then reversed. "What's the matter,

Joey?" said Ish.

"Don't we want to go out and work some more?"

"No, Joey. Not this afternoon."

Joey continued balancing, letting his gaze wander around the room and then

come back to his father.

"Go along, Joey," said Ish gently. "Everything's fine! We'll have the

lesson at the regular time."

Joey went off, but Ish was touched, even if a little humiliated, by the

wordless sympathy which his youngest son was offering. Joey scarcely could

understand the larger issues, but his quick mind had sensed that his father

was unhappy, even though there had been no argument between him and the

others. Yes, Joey was the one!

Since that idea had first come to Ish on New Years Day, he had been

pressing the lessons, and Joey had been absorbing them eagerly. There was

even danger that he might turn out to be a learned pedant. He showed little

ability at leadership among the other children, and sometimes Ish had begun

to doubt.

This small incident just now, for instance! It might show intelligence and

thought for the future, and it might show a tendency to escape from

contacts with those of his own age, who were better at games than he, and

to seek security in the presence of his father, by whom he felt himself

appreciated. Ish hoped that the other children did not feel how strongly

Joey had become his favorite. It was not right for a father to play

favorites, but this situation had arisen suddenly and involuntarily, that

New Years Day.

"Oh," he thought, "don't worry about it!" And suddenly he felt as if he

were explaining it all to Em. "There on New Years Day, I was suddenly sure

that Joey was the Chosen One. Now of course it's all blurred. Maybe this is

only the feeling a father gets for a small son. Later we may squabble, just

the way I do with Walt now. Yet, I hope! The other boys were never like

this--bright, I mean, lightning-quick at lessons. I don't know. I wish I

knew. I'll keep on trying."

Then, as he lit another cigarette, he was suddenly angry. He himself had

not been so very bright! He had missed the opportunity. During the years he

had been saying, "Something is going to happen!" It had not happened, and

they had smiled at him for a gloomy and not-to-be-regarded prophet. Now

this morning it *had* happened! It had been a shock! He could remember the

scared faces when he and Ezra and George had first come back with the news.

Then was the time to have made his I-told-you-so speech. He should have

rubbed it in. He should have painted the future with disaster. That might

have got something done.

As it was--perhaps he himself had been a little scared at the

moment--everyone had made as light as possible of the matter, searched for

the easiest makeshifts, and thus dulled the edge of what might have been

made to seem a disaster. The Tribe had really taken the matter in its

stride. Or--the identity of the word popped an old comparison into his

mind--it had rolled off, "like water off a duck's back!" Four or five hours

later, and everybody had apparently settled again into the old

happy-go-lucky life!

"Apparently," yes! But after all, some sense of shock and uncertainty must

still be lingering. Some had gone fishing and some had gone quail-shooting,

and already he had heard two reports of a shot-gun. But all of these must

certainly feel a slight sense of irresponsibility, even of guilt, at having

left the more important work. They would come in tired at evening, and then

the reaction might go the other way. He would get everybody together for a

meeting then. If the iron would not still be red-hot, it might at least

have rewarmed a little.

Then he himself incongruously crunched out his second after-lunch

cigarette, and settled back to rest, comfortable and unharassed by worry,

in the big chair. "This is comfortable," he thought, ""This is ...

*In those days they will look toward the sea, and cry out suddenly, "A

ship, a ship! ... Yes, a ship certainly! ... Do you not see the plume of

the drifting smoke? ... Yes, it is making for our harbor!" Then they will

be merry with one another and say gaily: "Why were we despondent?.... It

stood to reason that civilization could not be destroyed everywhere! ... Of

course, I always said .... In Australia, or South Africa, one of those

isolated places-or one of the islands." But there will be no ship, and only

a wisp of cloud on the horizon.*

*Or one will wake from his nap in the afternoon, and took upward quickly.

"Surely! ... I knew it must come! ... That was the motor of a plane .... I

could not be mistaken." But it will be only the locust in the bush, and

there will be no plane.*

*Or one will rig batteries to a radio-set, and sit with earphones,

fingering the dials. "Yes?" he will say sharply. "Be quiet there, all of

you! ... Surely, surely! ... Just at 920! ... Someone talking. I heard

distinctly, sounded Spanish ....* There again! ... *Now it's faded!" But

there will be no words on the air, only the tricks of the far-off

thunderstorms. *

"Yes, this is comfortable," thought Ish, resting in the big chair.... And

then suddenly he started! From the street came the noise of two loud

reports, and he knew at once that they could be nothing but the backfiring

of a large truck! Then, so quickly that he did not seem to take time at

all, he was standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, and there was

the truck in the middle of the street. It was a fine large truck painted

bright red with blue trim, and in large white letters on its side he saw:

U.S. GOVT. A man got out of the truck, and though he had been driving it,

he was now (quite understandably) wearing a cut-away coat and a high silk

hat. The man said nothing, but Ish of course knew that this was the

Governor of California. Ish felt himself filled suddenly with an

inexpressible happiness. For again there was security and constituted

authority and the strength of the many, instead of only the few in the

midst of surrounding darknessi, and now he, Ish, was no longer a weak and

neglected child wandering alone in the vast unfriendly world....

In that bewilderment of happiness too great to be bome, he awoke. The

insides of his hands were moist, and his heart pounded. As he looked around

the familiar room, the happiness faded out like a dying light, and in its

place succeeded a woe, equally unutterable.

After another moment the woe too faded out as his conscious controls took

over. That intense happiness of the dream, so overwhelming that it had

awakened him--he knew now that it had sprung again from that often-repeated

dream--"wish fulfillment," they used to say. How many times throughout these

twenty-one years had he dreamed it in some form or other! Not during the

first year or two indeed-his sense of loneliness and insecurity had seemed

to grow cumulatively with the years, piling up faster than the birth of new

children could counteract it.

Yes, today the symbolism had been very plain. It varied, though usually it

was plain enough. He felt a little surprised that it so often took the form

of the return of the United States Government. In the Old Times he had

never considered himself a flag-waving patriot, and he had not thought

often about such things as the benefits of citizenship. But no more,

indeed, did a person think of the air he breathed, until it was taken away.

A sense of the vastness and solidity of the United States of America must

have affected the sub-conscious feelings of its citizens, he reflected,

much more than most of them had imagined.

By now he had brought his mind back to his actual world. He stirred in the

chair. By the position of the sun he judged that he had slept an hour.

Again he heard the distant report of the shot-gun from the quail-hunters.

He smiled wanly, associating it with the back-firing truck. Anyway-now he

would set about getting the others together for the meeting which he had

planned for that evening.

Water supplies remained scanty throughout the day, but at least no one

suffered from thirst. That evening the older ones, including Robert and

Richard who were only sixteen, gathered at Ish's house at his invitation.

Ish found no one very much disturbed. It would be a good idea (this seemed

to be the general opinion) to try digging a well near one of the houses,

rather than to move to some houses nearer a natural water supply. Yes, they

probably would have to watch sanitation carefully under the new

arrangements and see that the children were instructed in such matters.

There was no presiding officer. Occasionally someone deferred to Ish to

settle a point, but this deference, he realized, might be because he held a

faintly recognized natural leadership of intellect or even for no better

reason than that he was the host. There was no secretary taking a record of

what happened. But then, there were no motions made and no votes taken. As

always, it was more a social than a parliamentary gathering. Ish listened

to the conversation back and forth.

"Come to think of it, though--how's anybody know we'd get water in that

well?"

"Can't be a well till you *do* get water."

"Well, that hole-in-the-ground then?"

"You got something there!"

"Maybe this would do better.... Run a pipe over to some click or spring,

and hitch it onto our old pipes."

"How about it, George? That sound O.K.?"

".... Why, sure.... I guess so... Yeah... I guess I could connect up some

pipes."

"Trouble would be, though, when everybody wants water at once."

"Have to build a dam--earth-dam would be all right--so's to have a little

bitty head behind your water."

"Guess we could do that?"

".... Sure ... Be some work, though."

As the conversation wandered on almost complacently, Ish found himself

gradually becoming more disturbed. To him it seemed as if this day had seen

a retrograde and perhaps irretrievable step. Suddenly he found himself on

his feet, and he was really making a speech to the ten people who were

there before him.

"This shouldn't have happened," he said. "We shouldn't have let this creep

up on us. Any time in the last six months we should have been able to see

that the water in the reservoir was failing, but we never even went to look

at it. And here we are, caught suddenly, and shoved back so that we'll

perhaps never be able to catch up with things again. We've made too many

mistakes. We ought to be teaching the children to read and write. (No one

has ever supported me strongly enough in that.) We ought to send an

expedition to find out what's happening other places. It's not safe not to

know what may be happening just over the hill. We should have more domestic

animals--some hens, anyway. We ought to be growing food..."

Then, when he was really in full career, someone started clapping, and he

stopped for applause, feeling pleased. But everyone was laughing

good-naturedly, and again he realized that the applause was ironic.

Through the noise of the hand-clapping he heard one of the boys saying:

"Good old dad! He's said it again!"

And another replied:

"Time for George and the refrigerator!"

Ish joined in the laughter. He was not angry this time, but he was

crestfallen at having unconsciously repeated himself and even more at

having again failed to make his point. Then Ezra was speaking--good old Ezra

who was always quick to cover up anyone's embarrassment!

"Yes, that's the old speech, but maybe there's a new point there. How about

that business of sending out an expedition?"

To Ish's surprise a vigorous discussion arose, and in its course he was

struck again by the unpredictable quality of people, particularly in a

group. He had thrown out the new idea without any special forethought; it

had sprung spontaneously from the events of the day--the surprise which had

come upon them because they had not taken the pains to explore around the

reservoir. He would have considered it the least important of his

suggestions, but this was the one that caught the group-imagination.

Suddenly everyone was in favor of it, and Ish joined the crowd in vigorous

support. It was better, he felt, to do something-anything to break the

lethargy.

Soon he felt himself becoming more enthusiastic. His original idea of an

"expedition" had merely been that they should explore the country for a

hundred miles or so roundabout, but he found that the others had understood

him to envisage something much more. Soon, his imagination kindling, he

went along with them. In a few minutes everyone was talking of a

transcontinental expedition. "Lewis-and-Clark in reverse!" thought Ish to

himself, but he said nothing, knowing that few of those present would know

anything about Lewis and Clark.

The talk ran on vigorously:

"Too long for walking!"

"Or dog-teams either!"

"Horses would do better, if we had some!"

"There're sure to be some over in the big valley."

"Take a long time to catch and break them."

As he listened, still another thought crossed Ish's mind. His old dream,

the one which had come again that afternoon! How did they really know that

the Government of the United States had actually failed? Even if it had, it

might have been reconstituted. It would be small and weak, of course, and

might not yet have been able to re-establish touch with the West Coast. By

their own effort they might make the contact.

Another curious feature was that nearly everyone wanted to go! It was the

best evidence you could want as to the way in which people generally--males,

at least--were born with itchy feet, always ready to go somewhere else and

see new things. The question became one of elimination. Ish was ruled out,

scarcely being able to put up a good protest, because of his disability

where the mountain-lion had clawed him, far back in the Year of the Lions.

George was too old. Ezra, in spite of his vigorous arguments, was

disqualified as being the worst shot of them all and generally the least

fitted to take care of himself in the open. As for the "boys," everyone

except themselves agreed that they should not leave their wives and young

families. In the end the decision was for Robert and Richard, youngsters,

but well able to take care of themselves. Their mothers, Em and Molly,

looked doubtful, but the enthusiasm of the meeting oven-ode their

objections. Robert and Richard were delighted.

The more ticklish questions were really as to the route and the means of

transportation. In the last few years no one had used an automobile, and

several once-fine cars stood forlorn and ruinous along San Lupo Drive on

hopelessly flat tires; the children used them for playhouses. The trouble

of keeping automobiles going was more work than pleasure, and the roads in

all directions had become so clogged with fallen trees and the bricks of

chimneys brought down by the earthquake that there would have been little

practical advantage to trying to travel about the city by car, even if you

had a workable one. On top of all that, the younger men had never known the

fun of driving a car under good conditions, and so had no interest.

Finally, where would you go if you had a car? You had no friends to visit

in the other part of town, and no movies to go to. To bring cans and

bottles home from the grocery stores, the dog-teams did well enough, and

they also served for fishing-expeditions to the bay-shore.

Still, the older ones agreed, it might be possible to get an automobile

running again, and to drive it for a considerable distance, even on rotten

tires, if you kept the speed down below, say, twenty-five miles an hour.

And that was really traveling, compared with a dog-team! Fast enough too to

take you to New York in a month easily--provided the roads were passable!

That was the other difficult point--the route! Ish was suddenly at home,

bringing into play his old knowledge of geography. Everything to the east,

across the Sierra Nevada, would be completely blocked by fallen trees and

landslides, and the roads to the north would probably be the same. The best

chance would certainly be through the more open country toward the south,

actually the route by winch Ish had gone to New York once long before. The

desert roads might still be almost as good as ever. The Colorado River

bridges might still be standing or might have fallen. ne only way to find

out would be to go and see.

His excitement rising, the old road-maps standing out more clearly in his

mind, Ish planned the route eastward. Beyond the Colorado the mountains

should not be too difficult, and there were no big rivers for a long

way-until you came to the Rio Grande at Albuquerque. Beyond there, if you

could just get through the Sandia Mountains, you had open plateau country,

and farther east there would be more and more choice of roads. (You could

still find gasoline in drums; that would be no great problem.) Once on the

plains, you should be able to get to the Missouri or the Mississippi, and

even across those largest rivers; the high steel bridges should still be

in. good condition, to judge by the Bay Bridge.

"What an adventure!" he burst out. "I'd give anything to be able to go! You

must look everywhere for people-not just one or two, but communities. You

must see how other groups are going at solving their'problenis and getting

started again."

Beyond the Mississippi (he resumed planning the route) it would be hard to

say. That was natural forest country, and the roads might be badly blocked.

On the other hand, fires might have kept the growth down, at least across

the old prairie country in Illinois. All they could do would be to go and

find out, if they even got that far, and to make decisions then.

By now the candles were getting well burned down. The clock. pointed to ten

o'clock, although that was only an approximation. (Ish checked time once in

a while by watching the shadow at noon, and the big clock in his

living-room was considered standard for the community.) But it certainly

was a late hour for people who had no electric lights, and so had gradually

got arourid to making more and more use of sunlight.

Suddenly the others were all on their feet and taking leave. When they had

gone, Ish and Em sent Robert to bed, and then started to straighten,up the

living-room.

Ish felt a nostalgic touch. Things had changed so much and yet sometimes

seemed to have changed not at all! This might have been away back in the

Old Times, and he instead of Robert might have been the youngster just sent

upstairs. He instead of Robert might be the one peeping down through the

stairway (as Robert probably was), seeing his father and mother moving

about, emptying cigarette trays, shoving cushions back into place, and

generally putting the room to rights so that it would not look too

devastating when they came down in the morning. It furnished a kind of

comfortable little, domestic interim which rounded off the evening and let

your nerves settle down from the buzz of conversation.

When they had finished, they sat on the davenport for a last cigarette.

Ish's mind could not help snapping back to the everung's discussion. Even

though things had not turned out as he had at first planned, still he felt

that he had carried a main point.

"Communications," he said. "Communications--maybe that's the big thing! Take

it anywhere in history. When a nation or a community got isolated all by

itself, it went conservative and then retrograded. It got to acting just

the way George and Maurine are over there, gathering in all the things out

of the past, and freezing just at that point. That sort of thing, maybe,

happened to Egypt and China. But then when there's contact with some other

civilization, everything loosens up again, and gets going. That's the way

it will be with us."

She did not say anything, but he knew from the very fact of her silence,

that she did not altogether agree.

"What is it, darling?" he asked.

"Well, you see, I was thinking maybe it wasn't so good for the Indians when

they got into communication with the white people, was it? Or how about all

my people on the coast of Africa when they got into contact with the

slavers?"

"Yes, but maybe that's just my point. How would we like it if some slavers

came over the hill some fine morning, and we had never known they were

anywhere around before? Wouldn't it have been better if the Indians could

have sent some scouts over to Europe, and been ready for white men who came

with horses and guns?"

He was pleased that he had countered so cleverly. After all, her argument

had merely been for letting things slide and for living in ignorance. That

kind of philosophy could never win in the long run. But all she said was:

"Yes, perhaps, perhaps."

"Do you remember?" he went on. "I was saying this a long time ago. We've

got to live more creatively, not just as scavengers. Why, I was saying this

way back even at the time our first baby was going to be bom!"

"Yes, I remember. You've said it a great many times! And still some way or

other, it seems to be easier just to go on opening cans."

"But the end will come some time, and it shouldn't come suddenly the way

this stopping of the water has today."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 3*

When he awoke that next morning, Em was gone from the bed. He lay still,

relaxed, calmly happy. Then his mind seemed to turn over suddenly and take

hold--and there it was, starting to make plans, thinking.

After a minute, a slight sense of irritation came over him. "You think too

much!" he said to himself.

Why did not *his* mind, like other people's minds, allow him to rest and be

happy without any planning ahead into the future, whether of the next

twenty-four hours or of the next sixty seconds? No, something took over

with a rush and a whir, and even though his body lay still, his mind turned

over and started, and there it was running on, like an idling engine.

*Engine?* Well, naturally, today he would think of engines!

But the quiet happiness between sleep and waking had definitely left him,

and pure contentment was gone. With a resentful push of his arm he threw

back the blankets.

This morning was bright and sunny. Though the air was cool, he went out to

the little balcony, and stood there, looking off toward the west. During

all these years the trees had everywhere grown taller, but he could still

see, the mountaintop and much of the Bay with its two great bridges.

The bridges! Yes, the bridges! To him they still were the most poignant

reminders of the great past. The children, indeed, as he had often

observed, scarcely thought of bridges as anything different from hills or

trees; they were just something that was there. But to him, Ish, the

bridges stood testifying daily to the power and the glory that had been

civilization. So, he thought, some tribesman--Burgund or Saxon--might once

have looked at a strong-built, not yet decayed, Roman gateway or triumphal

arch. But, no, that analogy did not hold. The tribesman was sure and

content in his own ancient folkways; he was first of the new, confident

master of his own world. He, Ish, was more like the last of the old, a

surviving Roman--senator or philosopher--spared by barbarian swords and left

to brood over an empty and ruinous city, anxious and uncertain, knowing

that never again would he meet his friends at the baths or know the deep

security that came to a man when he saw a cohort of the Twelfth march down

the street. But no, he was not just like the Roman either.

"History repeats itself," he thought, "but always with variations."

Yes--he had had a chance to think a great deal about history! Its

repetitions were not those of a stolid child going over and over the

multiplication table. History was an artist, maintaining the idea but

changing the details, like a composer keeping the same theme but dulling it

to a minor or lifting by an octave, now crooning it with violins, now

blaring it on trumpets.

As he, stood on the little balcony in his pajamas, he felt a light breeze

cool on his face. He sniffed it in more deeply, and again it brought to him

the realization that even the smell of things had changed. In the Old Times

you were not conscious of any characteristic smell to a city, and yet there

must have been a complex mingling of smoke and gasoline-ftimes and cooking

and garbage and even of people. But now there was only a fresh tang to the

air, such as he had once associated with country fields and mountain

meadows.

But the bridges! His glance came back to them, as if to a light in the

darkness. The Golden Gate Bridge he had not visited in many years. Such a

journey would mean a very long walk, or even a long pull for a dog-team; it

would mean camping out overnight. But he still knew well what the Bay

Bridge was like, and even from where he stood he could see it clearly.

He remembered what it had once been--six crowded lanes of swiftly moving

cars, the trucks and buses and electric Mains rumbling on the lower level.

There was, he knew, only one car on the Bridge now--that little empty coupé

parked neatly at the curb near this end of the West Bay span. The yellowed

certificate of registration had been, when he had last noticed, still

fastened to the steering-column--John S. Robertson (or, he could not surely

remember, it might have been James T.) of some number on one of the

numbered streets in Oakland. Now the fires were flat, and the once-bright

green paint had weatherdd to moss-gray.

*On the surface, to the eye, they had changed. The towers that hid their

tops in the summer clouds, the mile-long dipping cables, the interlocked

massive beams of steel-no longer they cast back the morning sun with a

bright sheen of silvergray. Over them now rested softly the neutral pall of

rust, red-brown color of desolation. Only, at the tops of the towers, and

along the cables at good spots for perching, the quiet monotone was capped

and spotted with the dead-white smears of the droppings of birds.*

*Yes, through the years the sea-birds had perched therethe gulls and

pelicans and cormorants. And on the piers the rats scurried, andfought, and

bred and nested, and lived as only rats can--squeaking and fighting, and

breeding and nesting, and at low tide feeding on mussels and crabs.*

*The broad roadway, unused, showed few signs of change--only roughness and a

few cracks here and there. Where blown dust had settled into cracks and

corners, a little grass was growing, and a few hardy weeds, not many.*

*Within its deeper structure also, the bridge was still intact and

unchanged. The superficial rust had done no more than wipe out a small

fraction of the safety-factor. At the eastern approach, where salt water

during time of storms splashed against the long-unpainted steel supports,

corrosion had been eaten somewhat deeper. An engineer, if there had been

one, would have shaken his head, and ordered the replacement of some

members before allowing traffic to resume.*

*But that was all. In the enduring structure of the bridge, long-dead

civilization still defied the attacks of all the powers of air and sea. *

Ish roused himself from his trance-like contemplation, and went in to

shave. The clean touch of the steel was at once soothing and stimulating.

Cheerfully now, happy with the expectation of purposive action, he found

himself thinking of the things to be done that day. He would have to see

that they started in again with work on the outhouses and the well. He

would make more plans about the -expedition into the far interior.

(President Jefferson giving instructions to Lewis and Clark!) He would have

to see what could be done about making a car work once more. Perhaps, he

thought happily, this would be the day on which they would take the road

again, not only in a car literally, but also figuratively--the road toward

the rebirth of civilization.

He finished shaving, but the moment seemed golden. So he lathered again,

and started over his face once more.... This community now, these

thirty-some people who held the seed of the future--they were fair enough

individuals, not brilliant by a long way, but sound. The original adults

had been better in spite of their shortcomings than you would have expected

to get if you had merely reached down into the great bin of humanity in the

old United States and taken the first that came by chance. He ran over them

again rapidly in his mind, and ended upon himself. How did he stack up

among the others?

Yes, he could remember years ago, in this same house, he had even sat down

and listed his qualifications for the new life. Such things, for instance,

as having had his appendix out. Well, having no appendix was still an

advantage, although actually, no one had been bothered with that kind of

trouble. But he had listed other things which now, he realized, had ceased

to be advantageous. He had listed, for instance, his quality of being able

to get along without other people. That was no longer a virtue. Perhaps, it

was even a vice. But he himself had changed also in those years. If he

listed his qualities now, they would not be exactly the same ones. He had

read widely, and learned much. Even of more importance, he had lived with

Em, and had become the father of a family. He had matured, as a man should.

He had a stronger will, he realized, than George or Ezra. If the test came,

they would yield to him. He, alone, could think into the future.

He disassembled the razor, and threw the blade into the medicine closet,

where there were already a lot of blades lying around. He never bothered to

use a blade more than once, because there were so many thousands of them

available that there seemed no need of economy. And yet this problem of

what to do with the old razor-blades was still curiously present. He

remembered jokes about that, from long ago. Funny how a little thing

remained the same after so many big things had changed irrevocably!

After breakfast Ish went over to talk with Ezra. They sat on the steps of

the porch. Before long, more people came along, and a little group formed,

as always happened when anybody seemed to be having an interesting

conversation. there was talk back and forth, and a good deal of easygoing

fun-making, with a little horse-play among the younger people. Everybody

seemed to agree, in general, that they ought to get to work again, but

nobody was in a special huffy to begin. Ile delay chafed Ish, especially

when George in his slow way began again to bring up the old question of the

gas-refrigerator.

At last, however, Ezra and the three younger men with an accompanying

rag-tag of little boys and girls moved off to begin work. As soon as they

had really started, a kind of enthusiasm fell upon them. Everyone, even

Ezra, suddenly began to run, trying to see who would be the first one there

to start digging. Ish could see Evie running with the rest-although she

could not know what was happening-her blond hair streaming wildly behind

her. Who got there first, he could not tell, but in a moment dirt started

to fly in all directions. He did not know whether to be amused or

perturbed. Everyone seemed to be turning serious work into a kind of play,

as if unable to distinguish between work and play. That might sound fine,

but you could not accomplish much, he thought, without settling down to

labor. As it was, the playful enthusiasm would wear out in half an hour,

and the dirt would move more slowly; then, children first, older ones soon

afterward, everyone would probably drift off to something else.

*When once they stalked the deer, or crouched shivering in the mud for the

flight of ducks to alight, or risked their lives on the crags after goats,

or closed in with shouts upon a wild boar at bay--that was not work, though

often the breath came hard and the limbs were heavy. When the women bore

and nursed children, or wandered in the woods for berries and mushrooms, or

tended the fire at the entrance to the rock-shelter--that was not work

either.*

*So also, when they sang and danced and made love, that was not play. By

the singing and dancing the spirits offorest and water might be placated--a

serious matter, though still one might enjoy the song and the dance. And as

for the making of love, by that-and by the favor of the gods--the tribe was

maintained.*

*So in the first years work and play mingled always, and there were not

even the wordsfor one against the other.*

*But centuries flowed by and then more of them, and many things changed.

Man invented civilization, and was inordinately proud of it. But in no way

did civilization change life more than by sharpening the line between work

and play, and at last that division came to be more important than the old

one between sleeping and waking. Skep came to be thought a kind of

relaxation, and "sleeping on the job" a heinous sin. The turning out of the

light and the ringing of the alarm-clock were not so much the symbols of

man's dual life as were the punching of the time-clock and the blowing of

the whistle. Men marched on picket-lines and threw bricks and exploded

dynamite to shift an hourfrom one classification to the other, and other

men fought equally hard to prevent them. And always work became more

laborious and odious, and play grew more artificial and febrile. *

Only Ish and George were left standing there by Ezra's porch-steps. Ish

knew that George was getting ready to say something. Funny, Ish thought,

you wouldn't think anyone could pause *until* he had said something; George

paused *before* he said anything.

"Well," said George, and then he paused again. "Well.... I guess I better

go get some planks ... so I can wall in the sides ... after she gets

deeper."

"Fine!" said Ish. George at least, Ish knew, would get the work done. He

had carried the habit of work over so strongly from the Old Times that he

perhaps could never really play.

George went off after his planks, and Ish went to find Dick and Bob, who

had been collecting and harnessing the dogteams.

He found the two boys in front of his own house. Three dog-teams were

ready. A rifle-barrel was sticking out from one wagon.

Ish considered for a moment. Was there anything else he should take along?

He felt a lack.

"Oh, say, Bob," he said, "run in, please, and get my hammer.11 "Aah, why do

you want thatT'

"Oh, well, nothing in particular, I guess. It might come in handy for

breaking a lock."

"You can always use a brick," said Bob, but he went.

Ish used the momentary delay to pick up the rifle and check that the

magazine was full. This was pure routine, but Ish himself was the one who

insisted on it. There was only a very small chance of meeting a

rambunctious bull or a she-bear with cubs, but you took the rifle along for

insurance. Ish, at times when he woke up in the night, still -remembered

very vividly the occasion when the dogs had trailed him.

Bob came back, and at once handed the hammer to his father. As Ish gripped

the handle, he felt a strange little sense of security. The familiar weight

of the dangling four-pound head brought him comfort. It was the same old

hammer that he had picked up long ago, just before the rattlesnake bit him.

The handle had been weathered and cracked then, and it still was. He had

often thought of choosing a new handle in some hardware store and fitting

it to the head. As a matter of fact he could just as well have picked out a

whole new tool. Actually, however, he had very little use for the harnmer.

By tradition he took it along every New Years Day when he cut the numerals

into the rock, but that was about its only practical value, and even for

that purpose a lighter one might have been better.

So now he stuck the hammer into the wagon by his feet, and felt

comfortable. "All ready?" he called to Dick and Bob, and just then,

something caught his eye.

A small boy was standing, half-hidden in the bushes, looking out at the

wagons. Ish recognized the slight figure. "Oh, Joey!" he called on impulse.

"Want to go along?"

Joey stepped out from the bushes, but hung back.

"I have to help digging the well," he said.

"Oh, never mind, they'll get the well dug without you or" [he added to

himself] "they more likely won't get it either with or without you."

Joey took no more urging. Obviously this was what he really been hoping. He

ran to Ish's wagon, and climbed snugly at his father's feet where he could

just find room. He held the hammer in his lap.

Then the dogs were off with a furious rush and an outburst of barking, as

they always liked to start out. The two other teams followed, with the

excited boys yelling and their dogs barking too. The dogs around the houses

barked back. It made a fair imitation of a riot. As always, hunched in the

little wagon behind six dogs, Ish felt ridiculous, as if he were acting in

some silly pageant.

Once the dogs had started, they stopped wasting breath barking, and settled

to a slower pace. Ish collected thoughts, and went over his plans.

He made his first stop at what had once been a station. The door was open.

Inside the little office, though it was walled in glass, the sunlight

filtered through in subdued yellow. Twenty-one years of fly-specks and

blown dust had coated the windows thickly.

He saw the old telephone directory hanging from its book beside the

long-dead telephone. As he took the book and opened it, bits of brittle

yellowed paper broke off from the pages and went fluttering to the floor.

He found the address of what had once been the local agency for jeeps. Yes,

with the roads in the condition they were, a jeep would be the thing.

Half an hour later, when they came to the proper streetcomer, Ish looked

through the dirty display-window, and his heart jumped with boyish

excitement at seeing a jeep actually standing there.

The boys tied up the teams, and the dogs, well-trained, lay down in orderly

fashion without snarling the tram. Dick tried the door; it was locked.

"Here," said Ish, "take the hammer, and smash the lock."

"Oh, here's a brick!" said Dick, and then went running off down the street

toward the remains of a chimney that had fallen in the earthquake. Bob went

with him.

Ish had a feeling of irritation. What was wrong with those boys? At best a

brick was not as good as the hammer for smashing a door in. He ought to

know; he had smashed a lot of them.

He stepped three strides across the sidewalk, and swinging with the hammer

on the rhythm of his last stride, he sent the door crashing inwards. That

would show them! After a, there had been sense in bringing the hammer!

The jeep that was standing there in the display-room had four flat tires,

and showed a thick layer of dust, but under the dust the red paint was

shiny. The speedometer showed a total of nine miles. Ish shook his head.

"No," he said, "this one's too new. I mean, she *was* too new! One that was

better broken in will be easier for us."

In the garage behind the display-room, there were several others. All their

tires were flat, extremely flat. One had its hood up and various of its

parts were scattered around. It must have been in for a repair-job. Ish

passed that one by.

There seemed little to choose between the others. The speedometer of one of

them stood at six thousand, and Ish decided to try that one.

The boys looked at him expectantly, and Ish felt that he was putting

himself to the test.

"Now remember," he said defensively, "I don't know whether I can get this

thing going or not. I don't know whether anyone could--after twenty years

and more! I'm not even a mechanic, you know! I was just one of those

ordinary fellows who had driven a car quite a lot and could change a fire,

or tighten a fan-belt, maybe. Don't expect too much.... Well, first, we

might try to see if we can move her."

Ish made sure that the brake was off and the gears in neutral.

"All right," he said. "The tires are flat, and the grease is stiff in the

wheel-bearings, and for all I know maybe the bearings themselves have gone

flat from standing twenty years the same way. But come on and get behind

her, and we'll shove. This floor is level anyway.... All right, now. All

together--shove!" The car lurched suddenly forward!

The boys were yelping with pleasure and excitement, and their noise set the

dogs to barking. You would have thought it was all over, whereas all that

had been proved was that the wheels still would turn.

Next Ish put the gear into high, and they shoved again. This was a

different story. The car did not budge.

The question was now whether the engine and gears were merely stiff from

disuse or whether they were actually rusted tight somewhere.

Looking under the hood, Ish saw that the engine was well smeared with

grease, as engines usually were. There was little sign of external rust,

but that might show nothing about what had happened inside.

The boys looked at him expectantly, and he thought of expedients. He could

try the other car. He could have the boys bring the dog-teams in and hitch

them to the car. Then he had another idea.

The jeep which had been in the process of being repaired was only some ten

feet behind the one they had chosen to try. If they could shove that one

forward out of gear, they might send it against the rear of the other with

enough momentum to make something give. Also they might smash something,

but that was no matter!

They brought this jeep within two feet of the other, and rested. Then,

altogether, they shoved again.

There was a satisfactory bang of metal on metal. Going to look, they found

that the first jeep had moved three inches. After that, they could move it

with hard pushing, even when it was in gear. Ish began to feel triumphant.

"You see," he said, "once you get something moving it's easier to keep

moving!" (Then he wondered whether that principle applied to groups of

people, as well as to engines.)

The battery of course was dead, but Ish had faced that problem before.

First, however, he gave the boys instructions to drain all oil out of the

car and replace it with oil from sealed cans, using the lightest oil

available.

Leaving them at work, he went off with a dog-team. In half an hour he was

back with a battery. He connected it, and turned the key in the ignition

switch, watching the needle on the ammeter. Nothing happened. Perhaps the

wiring was gone somewhere.

But he tapped the ammeter, and the long unused needle suddenly disengaged

and went jiggling over to *Discharge.* There was life! He felt around for

the starter-button.

"Well, boys," he said, "here's a real test.... Yes, I guess this is the

acid test, seeing that that's what we have in the battery!" But the boys

grinned blankly, never having heard the expression, and Ish found himself a

little disturbed that he had been able to make a pun at such a climax. He

pressed t ' he starter-button. There was a long grunt.

Then slowly the engine turned!

After the first turn it moved more easily, and then more q,asily still. So

far, so good!

The gasoline-tank was empty, like most of them. these days. Probably their

caps were not air-tight, or else the gasoline seeped through the

carburetor-Ish did not know.

They found gasoline in a drum, and poured five gallons into the tank. Ish

put in fresh spark-plugs. He primed the carburetor, feeling a little proud

that he knew enough to do so. He got into the seat, set the choke, snapped

the ignition on again, and tramped on the starter-button.

The engine grunted, turned over, turned faster, and then suddenly roared

into life.

The boys were shouting. Ish sat triumphantly, nursing the throttle with his

foot. He felt a sense of pride in the old achievements of civilization-in

all the honest design and honest work of engineers and machinists which had

gone into fashioning this engine, fit to work after twenty-some years of

idleness.

The engine, however, died suddenly when the gas in the carburetor was

exhausted. They primed and ran it again, and still again, and finally the

ancient pump brought up gas from the tank, and the engine ran continuously.

The problem now--and perhaps the worst of all--was tires.

In the same display-room there was one of the usual tireracks well raised

above the floor. But the tires had been standing upright for so long that

they had sagged a little under their own weight, and the rubber, where it

had rested against the rack, was badly indented. Such tires, even though

they might last for a few miles, held obviously little possibility for a

long run. By searching carefully, they finally found some fires which had

been resting on their sides, and these seemed to be in'better condition,

although the rubber was hard and full of little cracks, and gave an

impression of being dead.

They found a jack, and raised the first wheel from the ground. Even to get

the wheel off was a struggle, for the nuts had begun to rust to the

threads.

Bob and Dick were unaccustomed to the use of tools, and little Joey kept

getting in the way with his eagerness, and was more hindrance than help.

Even in the Old Times Ish had never dismounted a fire except once or twice

in an emergency, and he had forgotten the tricks, if he had ever known

them.

They spent a long time sweating the first tire off the rim. Bob barked a

knuckle, and Dick tore a finger-nail half off. Getting the "new" tire onto

the rim was even more of a struggle, both because of their clumsiness and

because of the tire's own aged stiffness. At last, tired and thoroughly

irritated with one another and with the whole job, they finished getting

this one tire onto the rim.

Just as they were pausing, triumphant but fired, Ish heard Joey calling to

him from across the garage.

"What is it, Joey?' he answered, a little petulantly.

"Come here, Daddy."

"Oh, Joey, I'm tired," he said, but he went, and the two other boys trailed

with him. Joey was pointing at the spare wheel of one of the jeeps.

"Look, Daddy," he said, "why couldn't you use that one?"

"All Ish could do was to burst out laughing.

"Well, boys," he said to Dick and Bob, "that's the time we made fools of

ourselves!"

The tire on the spare wheel had been suspended in the air all these years,

and it was already on a wheel. They had not needed to shift any tires. All

they had needed to do was to take this and the other spares, pump them up,

and put them on their own jeep. They had done a lot of work for no purpose

because they had just barged along and not used their heads.

Then Ish, suddenly recognizing his own stupidity, strangely gained a new

pleasure. Joey was the one who had seen! But by now it was time for lunch.

They had brought along only their spoons and always essential can-openers.

Now they went off to the nearest grocery store.

Like all the others it was a scene of devastation and litter and ruin. A

mess! It was depressing to Ish, even horrible, in spite of the many times

he had seen its like. The boys, however, thought nothing of it, never

having seen a grocery store in any other state. Rats and mice had chewed

into all the cartons, and the floor was deep with the remnants of cardboard

and paper, mixed with rodent droppings. Even the toilet paper had been

chewed, probably for nesting.

But the rodents could do nothing with glass or tin, and so the bottles and

cans were undisturbed. They even looked startlingly neat, at first glance,

in contrast with the mess elsewhere. When you looked closer, they were not

really neat. Droppings were scattered even on these shelves, and many

labels had been chewed, probably because of the paste beneath the paper.

Also the colors had faded, so that the once bright red tomatoes on the

labels were a sickly yellow, and the rosy-cheeked peaches had almost

disappeared.

The labels, however, were still readable. At least, Ish and Joey could read

them, and the others, though they got stuck on many hard words like

*apricots* and *asparagus,* could at least tell what was inside by looking

at the pictures. They selected what they wanted.

The boys were quite ready to sit down in the liner and eat. Ish, however,

wanted to get outside. So they went and sat on the curb in the sun.

They did not bother with a fire, but ate a cold lunch out of the cans, each

to his choice, from a selection of baked beans, sardines, salmon, liver

loaf, comed beef, olives, peanuts, and asparagus. Such a meal, Ish knew,

ran high in proteins and fats and low in carbohydrates, but there were few

carbohydrates that had been canned or bottled, and the few that you could

find, like hominy and macaroni, called for heating. For drink, they had

tomato juice. They ate a desert of canned nectarines and pineapple.

When they had finished, they wiped off the spoons and can-openers and put

them back into their pockets. The halfempty cans they merely left lying.

There was so much litter in the street already that something more did not

matter.

The boys, Ish was glad to notice, were in a hurry to get back to work at

the car. They had apparently begun to feel a little of the intoxication

that was likely to come from a mastery over power. He himself was a little

tired, and a new idea was shaping in his mind.

"Say, boys," he said, "Bob and Dick, I mean. Do you think you can go back

and shift those wheels by yourselves?"

"Sure," said Dick, but he looked puzzled.

"What I mean is--well, Joey is too little to be much use, and I'm tired.

It's only four blocks to the City Library from here. Joey can go with me.

Want to, Joey?"

Joey was already on his feet with the excitement of the idea. The other

boys were happy to get back to the tires.

As they walked toward the Library, Joey ran ahead in his eagerness. It was

ridiculous, thought Ish, that he had never taken Joey there before. But all

this matter of Joey's reading and intellectual interests had developed very

rapidly.

Because of his policy of saving the great University Library as a reserve,

Ish had been using this library for his own purposes for many years, and

had long since forced the lock on the main entrance. Now he pushed the

heavy door open, and entered proudly with his youngest son.

They stood in the main reading-room, and then wandered, through the stacks.

Joey said nothing, but Ish could see his eyes drink the titles in as he

passed. They came out from the stacks again, and stood in the main lobby by

the entrance looking back. Then Ish had to break the silence.

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"Is it all the books in the world?"

"Oh, no! Just a few of them."

"Can I read them?"

"Yes, you can read any you want to. Always bring them back, and put them in

place again, so they won't get lost and scattered."

"What's in the books?"

"Oh, something of pretty near everything. If you read them all, you would

know a lot."

"I'll read them all!"

Ish felt a sudden warning shadow fall on the happiness of his mind.

"Oh, no, Joey! You couldn't possibly read them all, and you wouldn't want

to. There are dull ones and stupid ones and silly ones, and even bad ones.

But I'll help you pick out the good ones. Now, though, we'd better go."

He was actually glad to get Joey away. The stimulation of seeing so many

books so suddenly seemed almost more than was good for the frail little

boy. Ish was glad that he had not taken him to the University Library. In

due time now he could take him there.

As they walked toward the garage, Joey did not run ahead. This time he kept

close to his father; he was thinking. Finally he spoke:

"Daddy, what is the name of those things that are on the ceilings of our

rooms--like shiny white balls? You said once they used to make light."

"Oh, those are called 'electric lights.'"

"If I read the books, could I make them make light again?"

Ish felt a sudden intoxication of pleasure, and immediately after it a

sense of fear. This must not go too fast!

"Well, Joey, I don't know," he said, trying to speak with unconcern. "Maybe

you could, maybe not. Things like that take time, and a lot of people

working together. You've got to go slow."

Then they walked without speaking. Ish was proud and triumphant that Joey

had absorbed so much of his own feeling, and yet he was fearful. Joey was

moving even *too* fast. The intellect should not run ahead of the rest of

the personality. Joey needed physical strength and emotional solidity.

Still, he was going far!

Ish came out of his thoughts to the sound of retching, and saw that Joey

was vomiting upon a pile of rubble.

"That lunch!" thought Ish guiltily. "I let him eat too much mixture. He's

done this before." Then he realized that the excitement had probably been

more a factor than the lunch.

When Joey felt better, and they finally got back to the garage, they found

that the boys had finished the work of shifting tires and pumping them up.

Ish felt his old curiosity about the car and the expedition rising up

again.

He got into the car, and once more started the engine. He nursed it

lovingly, and then raced it a little to let it grow warm. Well, the engine

was running and the tires were hold-, ing, at least temporarily. But there

were a lot of, questions about clutch and transmission and steering-gear

and brakes, besides all those mysterious but vital things which lurked

somewhere in the make-up of automobiles and of which he scarcely even knew

the names. They had filled the radiator, but the water-circulation might

well be clogged somewhere, and even that was enough to render a car of no

value. But here we are again worrying about the future!

"All right!" he said. "Let's go!"

The engine was muttering contentedly. He threw the clutch out, and worked

the stiff transmission into low gear. He let the clutch in, and the car

lurched forward heavily, as if its bearings were almost too stiff to be

started again, as if their fine steel balls like the rubber tires, had

flattened from long stand.!, ing in one position. Yet the car moved, and he

felt it respond to the stiff steering gear. He pressed upon the brake, and

the car came to a stop, having moved only six feet. Yet it had moved, and

(of equal importance) it had stopped.

He had a sudden feeling of more than pleasure, reaching to, the height of

exaltation. It was not all a dream! If, in one day' work a man and three

boys could get a jeep to running again., what could not a whole community

accomplish in the course of a few years?

The boys unloosed the dogs from one of the wagons to home by themselves.

They hitched the wagon behind one the others. Then Dick drove one team, and

Bob the ther. Ish, with Joey beside him, started out bravely.

Fallen buildings had left heaps of debris in the street. blowing winds had

drifted leaves and dust upon the bricks and the winter rains had washed the

whole into semblances natural banks and hillocks. Grass was growing

thickly; on o little mound there was even a fair stand of bushes. Ish

stiffly hither and thither, finding a way along the clogged streets. He was

nearing home when he sharply over a brick and heard a bang as the left rear

tire out. He ended the day driving home on one flat tire, badly, but taking

it slowly and making the last grade successfully, a little ahead of the

dog-teams. In spite of this final mishap, he felt that he had done well.

He let the jeep roll to a stop in front of the house, leaned back in

triumphant relief. At least he had got it home.

Then he pressed the horn-button, and after these years of silence it

responded wonderfully--TOOT-A-TOOT-TOOT!

He expected children, and older people too, to come hurrying from all

directions at the unaccustomed sound, but there was no one. Only a sudden

barking of dogs sprang up from everywhere. Then the team-dogs joined in the

chorus, as they now came up the hill, and the boys joined him. Ish felt a

sudden emptiness of fear inside him. Once before, long ago, he had come

into a strangely empty town, and blown the horn of his car, and now it was

easy enough to think that something might have happened when your whole

universe consisted of only some thirty more or less defenseless people. But

that was only for a moment.

Then he saw Mary, her baby on her arm, come unconcernedly out of the house

down the street, and wave to him. "They've all gone bull-dodging!" she

called.

The boys were suddenly excited to join the sport. They loosed the dogs from

the carts, and were off, not even asking permission of Ish. Even Joey, now

wholly recovered from his illness, rushed off with the others. Ish felt

suddenly left alone and neglected, his triumph at restoring transportation

gone suddenly sour in his mouth. Only Mary came to look at the jeep. She

stared with big enough eyes, but was as untalkative as the baby, who also

stared.

Ish got out of the jeep, and stretched. His long legs were cramped from its

close quarters, and his bad loin ached from even this small amount of

bumping.

"Well," he said with a little pride in his voice, "what do you think of it,

Mary?" Mary was his own daughter, but she was not much like either of her

parents, and her stolidity often bothered him.

"Good!" she said with a Choctaw-like imperturbability.

Ish felt that there was not much to follow up along that line. "Where's the

bull-dodging?" he asked.

"Down by the big oak tree."

Just then they heard the loud sound of yelling, and Ish knew that someone

had made a good maneuver at dodging.

"Well, I guess I might as well go down and see the national sport," he

said, though he knew the irony would be wasted.

"Yes," said Mary, and began to stroll back with her baby toward her own

house. 200

Ish went off on the path down the hill, across lots, through what had once

been someone's backyard. "National sport!" he was still thinking to himself

bitterly, although he realized that the bitterness might be partly because

his own triumphant entry had been spoiled. He heard another shout from

ahead which indicated that again someone put himself within a few inches of

the bull's homs.

Bull-dodging was dangerous, too, although actually no one had ever been

killed or even badly hurt. Ish rather disapproved of the whole business,

but he did not feel that he was in a position to set himself firmly against

it. The boys needed some way to get rid of their energy, and perhaps they

even needed something dangerous. By and large, life was perhaps too quiet

and too safe these days. Possibly--the image of Mary came to his mind

again--too safe and unadventurous life tended to produce stolid people.

These days children never had to be warned against crossing the street

because of automobiles, and there were dozens of other daily hazards of the

old civilization such as the common cold, not to mention atomic bombs,

which nobody ever needed to consider. You had the ordinary run of sprains,

cuts, and bruises, what you expected among people living largely in the

open, and handling tools like hatchets and knives. Once, too, Molly had

burned her hands badly, and there had been a near-drowning when a

three-year-old had slipped from the pier at fishing.

Now he came into the edge of the little open space on the side of the hill,

fairly level, close to the flat rock where the numerals of the years were

incised. It had once been a park. The bull was being played in the center

of the grassy spot. It was not a lawn such as you expected in a park. The

grass was a foot tall at this time of year, and would have been taller if

it had not been eaten down, by cattle and elk.

Harry, Molly's fifteen-year-old, was playing the bull, and Ish's own Walt

was backing him up-what they called "playing halfback"--a bit of jargon

surviving from the Old Times. Although Ish did not consider himself an

expert, his first glance was enough to let him know that this particular

bull was not very dangerous. He must have been of almost pure Hereford

blood, and still had the red coat with the white face and front markings.

Nevertheless he showed the cumulative effects of ancestors who for

twenty-one years had lived as, range cattle, knowing no man-supplied

shelter or food and surviving as best they could. The legs were longer; the

barrel of the body, slimmer; the horns, bigger. At the moment, there was a

pause in the game as the already tiring bull stood uncertain, and Harry was

taunting him to charge.

At the edge of the glade among the trees on the uphill side, the spectators

were sitting--almost everybody from the community in fact, including Jeanie

with her baby. Among the trees they would have no trouble getting out of

the road of the bull, if by any chance he should suddenly decide to leave

the open ground. There were several dogs to be loosed in an emergency, and

Jack sat with a rifle across his knees.

The bull suddenly came to life, and charged ponderously uphill with enough

power to have wiped out twenty boys. But Harry dodged neady, and the bull

came to a halting stop, uncertain and confused.

A little girl (she was Jean's Betty) sprang suddenly from the group, and

cried out that she wanted to take over. She was a wild, dashing little

figure, her skirts tucked up high around her thighs, her long sun-tanned

legs flashing back and forth in the sunshine. Harry yielded place to his

half-sister. The bull was tired now, and fit for a girl to take over.

Betty, aided by Walt, managed to provoke a few charges which were of no

difficulty to dodge. And then, suddenly, a little boy cried out loudly,

"I'm going in!"

It was Joey. Ish frowned, but he knew that he would not have to exert

himself to forbid it. Joey was only nine, and it was strictly against the

rules for anyone so young to try bulldodging, even as halfback. The older

boys enforced this discipline quickly enough. They were kindly, but firm.

"Aah, Joey," said Bob from his age of sixteen, "you're not big enough yet.

You've got to wait a couple of years, anyway."

"Yeah?" said Joey. "I'm as good as Walt is, anyway."

The way he said it, suggested to Ish that Joey might have been doing a

little practice on his own, sneaking off to find some easy-looking bull and

playing it for a while, perhaps with the aid of Josey, his devoted twin

sister. Ish felt a quick coldness pass through him at the thought of any

danger to Joey--to Joey, particularly.

After a few more half-hearted protests, however, Joey had to subside.

By this time the bull, fat from the good grazing, was thoroughly tired and

winded. He stood, only pawing the grass a little, while the wildly

cavorting Betty swarmed around him, and even turned a handspring. But the

sport was obviously, over, and the spectators began to drift off. The older

boys called to Betty and Walter. Suddenly the bull, much to his relief,

doubtless, was merely left standing alone in the center of the grassy spot.

Back at the houses, Ish went to look at the well, to see how much work had

been done during the day. He found that it had been sunk only a foot or so.

Shovels and picks were left scattered about. All too obviously, the

easygoing nature of the community and the special attraction of

bull-dodging had prevented much labor being performed. Ish looked at the

shallow hole a little grimly.

Yet during the day enough water had been carted in from a spring to provide

plenty for all practical purposes. At dinner the veal roast was extremely

good, and the only thing lacking to make a really excellent meal for Ish

was that his Napa Gamay had soured a little in the bottle, after standing

for better than a quarter-century, if the vintage-date on the label could

be trusted.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 4*

He planned that the boys should leave on the fourth day. That was another

difference between the Old Times and these now. Then it was all so

complicated that anything important had to be worked out a long time ahead;

now you just decided on something, and did it. Besides, the season of the

year was favorable, and he feared that delay would only permit the

enthusiasm for the expedition to seep away.

Throughout the intervening days he kept the boys busy. He practiced them at

driving. He took them to the garage again, and picked up some spare parts,

such as a fuel-pump and a coil. To the best of his ability he showed them

how to change parts, and they practiced a little.

"Or," he said, "you might find it easier, if you have trouble, to stop in

at some garage and get another one running, just as we did here. That might

be easier than to try patching this one."

But most of all Ish enjoyed the planning of the route. In the service

stations he found road-maps, yellow and faded. He studied them eagerly,

bringing into play his old knowledge of the land, trying to imagine how

flood and windstorm and treegrowth would have affected the roads at

different points.

"Head south first, for Los Angeles," he concluded finally. "That was a big

center of population in the Old Times. There are probably some people left,

maybe a community."

On the map he let his glance run southward toward Los Angeles, following

the old familiar red lines of the routes.

"Try 99 first," he said. "You can probably get through. If it's blocked in

the mountains turn back toward Bakersfield and work across to 466, and try

it over Tehachapi Pass...."

He paused, and in the pause he suddenly felt his throat tight, and his eyes

brimming. Nostalgia filled him. The names, it *must* have been, that did

it! Burbank, Hollywood, Pasadena--once they had been living towns. He had

known them. Now coyotes hunted jack-rabbits through their drought-stricken

parks and back-lots. Yet all the names still stood out black and plain on

the maps.

He swallowed and winked, for he saw the two boys looking at him.

"O.K.," he said briskly. "From Los Angeles, or from Barstow, if you can't

make Los Angeles, take 66 east. That was the way I went. Across the desert,

things should be easy. But watch your water. If the Colorado River bridge

is there, well and good. If not, swing north and try the road across

Boulder Dam. The dam will be there still, certainly."

On the maps he showed them how to figure out alternate routes, if they

found themselves blocked anywhere. But with the jeep he thought that they

could usually get through with no more than the occasional cutting back of

a fallen tree, or an hour's work with pick and shovel to make a track

across a landslide. After all, even in twenty-one years, the great highways

would not be entirely blocked.

"You may have some trouble in Arizona," he went on. "After you get to the

mountains, but then.... "

"What's Arry--? What is it?--Arry-*zone*-a?"

Bob was asking, and it was a fair enough question. But Ish found himself

stumped to answer it. What Arizona once had been--even that was a hard one.

Had it been a certain amount of territory, or had it been essentially a

corporate entity, an abstraction. Even so, how could he explain in a few

words what a "state" had been? Much less, how could he explain what Arizona

now was?

"Oh," he said finally, "Arizona--that was just a name for that part over

there beyond the river." Then he had an inspiration, "See, on the map it's

this part inside the yellow line."

"Yes," said Bob, "I suppose they had a fence around it?"

"Well, I doubt whether they had."

"That's right. They wouldn't have needed a fence where the river was."

(Let it pass, thought Ish. He thinks Arizona is like an old fenced-in

backyard, only bigger.)

After that, however, he stopped referring to states, and mentioned cities.

The boys knew what a city was, that is, it was a lot of littered streets

and weather-beaten buildings. Of course, since they themselves lived in a

city, they could easilyimagine another city and another community like

their own.

He routed them through Denver, Omaha, and Chicago, wanting to see what

would have happened in the great cities. By that time it would be spring.

Beyond that, he told them to try for Washington and New York, by the route

that seemed the most passable.

"The Pennsylvania Turnpike may still be the best way to get across the

mountains. It will be hard to block a four-lane highway like that, and even

the tunnels should still be open."

For the return route he left them to their own choice; by that time they

would know more about conditions than he did. He suggested, however, that

they swing far to the south, since on account of the cold winters there

would probably have been a drift of population toward the Gulf Coast.

They drove the jeep every day, and thus, by the process of elimination

through blow-outs, they got tires which seemed likely to stand up under

some wear.

On the fourth day they left, the back of the jeep jammed with an extra

battery, tires, and other equipment; the boys themselves, half-wild with

the excitement of the prospect; their mothers, close to tears at the

thought of so long a separation; Ish himself, nervous with the desire to go

along.

*The boundaries, like the fences, drew lines that were hard and

uncompromising. They too were man-made, abstractions dominating reality.

Where you crossed by the highway, on a line, the road-surface changed. It

was smooth in Delaware, but when you went into Maryland, you felt a change

in vibration, and all at once the tires hummed differently. "State line,"

the sign read. "Entering Nebraska. Speed limit 60 M. P. H. " So even right

and wrong altered with the sharp snap of a discontinuity, andyou stepped

harder on the throttle.*

*At the national boundary the flags showed different colors, though the

same breeze blew them. You stopped for customs and immigration, and were

suddenly a stranger, unfamiliar. "Look," you said, "that policeman has a

different uniform!" You got new money, and even for picture post-cards the

stamps had to have another face on them. "Better drive extra carefully,"

you said. "Wouldn't be good to get arrested over here." That was a funny

business! You stepped across a line you couldn't see, and then you were one

of those queer people--a foreigner!*

*But boundaries fade even faster than fences. Imaginary lines need no rust

to efface them. Then there will be no quick shifts, and adjustments, and

perhaps it will be easier on the mind. They will say as in the beginning:

"About where oaks start to get thin, and the pines take over. " They will

say: "Over across there--can't tell exactly--in the foothills where it gets

drier and you start seeing sage-brush.*

After the boys had left, there seemed to be a settling down into another

one of those calm and happy periods which had led them to name one certain

time the Good Year. Day after day things drifted, week after week. The

rains held on late--hard showers, quickly clearing afterwards, with fine

blue weather, so that the far-off towers of the Golden Gate Bridge stood

out clean-etched and still majestic against the the western sky.

In the mornings, Ish usually managed to herd enough of them together to get

some work done on the well. Their first shaft hit bed rock before water,

for on the slope of the hill the soil was thin. But they managed to take

the second shaft down, until they struck a good flow. They walled the well

in with planking, and covered it, and rigged a hand-pump. By this time,

they had all become accustomed to using the outhouses, and the thought of

the labor involved to make the toilets work again by means of pipes and

tanks and hand-pumping seemed more than was worthwhile. And so they put it

off.

The fishing was good now. Everyone wanted to go fishing, and other matters

seemed to take second place.

In the evenings, they often gathered together, and sang songs to the

accompaniment of Ish's accordion. He sometimes suggested that they should

try singing parts. When they did, old George carried a good resonant bass,

and the others caught on to the idea, but no one seemed very much

interested in this sophistication.

No, Ish decided again as he had decided long before, they were not a very

musical group. Years before, he had tried bringing home records of

symphonies and playing them on the wind-up phonograph. Such rendition of

course was not very good; even so, you could follow the themes. But he

never got the children interested. At some melodic passage they might leave

off their own playing or wood-carving and look up, listening with pleasure

for a moment. As soon, however, as the development became a little

complicated, the children went back to their own play. Well, what could you

expect of merely a few average people and their descendants? (No, a little

better than average, he insisted--but possibly not in musical appreciation.)

In the Old Times one American in a hundred might have had a deep or real

appreciation of Beethoven, and those few were probably just among those

more sophisticated and intense people who, like the more highly bred dogs,

had apparently been less able to survive the shock of the Great Disaster.

As an experiment, he also tried jazz records. At the loud blare of the

saxophones, the children again left off their own enterprises, but again

the interest had been momentary. *Le jazz hot!* It too, with all its

involuted rhythms, had been a sophistication; it appealed, not to a simple

and primitive mind, but to one that was highly developed and specialized,

at least along that particular line. You might as well expect the children

to appreciate Picasso or Joyce.

In fact--and this was something that encouraged him--the younger generation

showed little interest in listening to the phonograph at all; they

preferred to do their own singing. He took this as a good sign: that they

would rather participate than listen, rather be actors than audiences.

They failed, however, to take the next step and compose tunes and words of

their own. Ish himself occasionally tried making up a verse with topical

references, but either he had no knack for it or else his efforts met with

unconscious resistance as being a violation of tradition.

So they sang in unison against the background of the standardized chords

and bumping bass of the accordion. The simpler tunes, he observed, they

liked the best. The words seemed to make little difference. They sang

"Carry me back to old Virginny" although they had no idea what "Virginny"

was or who was asking to be carried back. They sang "Halleluiah, I'm a

bum!" without caring what a bum was. They sang plaintively of Barbara Allen

although none of them had even known of unrequited love.

Often, in those weeks, Ish thought of the two boys in the Jeep. Perhaps the

children would call for "Home on the Range," and as his left hand shifted

to the G-buttons, he would have a sudden thought, and a pang with it. Just

now Bob and Dick might be somewhere far out in the old range country.

Playing mechanically, he would wonder. Were the deer and the antelope

playing there now? Or was it cattle? Or had the buffalo come back?

More often, however, thoughts of the boys came to him in the dark hours of

the night when some dream, caused by his very anxiety, brought him out of

sleep in sudden terror to lie nervously considering possibilities.

How could he ever have let them try it? He thought of all the dangers of

flood and storm. And the car! You could never trust young fellows with a

car, and even though there was no danger from traffic, they might run off

the road. There would be many bad places. The boys would take chances.

There would be mountain-lions and bears and bad-tempered bulls. Bulls were

worst of all, because they never seemed to have lost a certain contempt for

men, sprung perhaps from age-old familiarity.

No--more likely, the car would break down. Then they would be marooned,

hundreds or even thousands of miles away!

But what raised the worst shivers in Ish at such moments in the night was

the thought of *men*! What people might the boys encounter? What strange

communities--warped and perverted by curious circumstances, unrestrained by

any flywheel of tradition! There might be communities with universal and

death-dealing hostility to the stranger. Outlandish religious rites might

have developed--human sacrifice, cannibalism! Perhaps, like Odysseus

himself, the two youngsters would encounter lotus-eaters and sirens and

unspeakable Laestrygonians.

This community of their own; here on the hillside, might be stodgy and dull

and uncreative, but it had at least preserved the human decencies. That was

no guarantee that other comunities had done the same.

But in the morning light, all these bug-a-boos of the darkness lost their

reality. Then he thought of the two boys as enjoying themselves, stimulated

by new scenes, perhaps by new people. Even if the car should break down and

they were unable to start another one, still they could walk back over the

same road they had driven. There would be no lack of food. Twenty miles a

day, at least a hundred a week--even if they had to walk a thousand miles,

they should be home before fall. Actually, if they kept a car running, they

should be home a great deal sooner. When he thought of it, he could

scarcely contain himself for excitement at the thought of all the news they

would bring.

So the weeks passed, and the rains were over. The grass on the hills lost

its fresh greenness, and then seeded and turned brown. In the mornings the

low summer clouds hung so close that the towers of the bridges sometimes

reached up into them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 5*

As time passed, Ish stopped thinking, and dreaming, so much about the two

boys. Their being gone so long seemed to show that they had traveled far.

It was barely time to expect their return from a transcontinental journey,

and certainly not time to begin worrying over their failure to return.

Other thoughts, and worries, occupied his mind.

He had reorganized the school, and was back at what he felt to be his

essential work of teaching the young ones to read and write and work a

little arithmetic, and thus to maintain for The Tribe some hold on the

basic skills of civilization. But the young ones, ungratefully, fidgeted on

their chairs, and looked restlessly toward the windows, and he knew that

they wanted to be outside, running on the hillside, and playing at

bulldodging, fishing. He tried various lures, attempting the techniques

which in the old days he remembered had been called "progressive

education."

Wood-carving! Curiously to Ish, wood-carving had become the chief means of

artistic expression. Obviously this was a heritage from old George.

Perhaps, stupid as he was, George had unconsciously managed to pass along

to the children his love of wood-working. Ish himself had no interest in

it, and no knack.

No matter what it had come from! Could he, Ish, as a teacher, make use of

this hobby to stimulate an intellectual interest?

So he began to teach them geometry, and to show them how with compass and

ruler they could lay out designs on the surface of the wood.

The bait took, and soon with great enthusiasm everyone talked of circles

and triangles and hexagons, and had laid out a geometrical design, and was

eagerly carving. Ish himself became interested. He felt the fascination of

the work as the mellow sugar-pine block--aged for almost a quarter

century--began to peel off from his knife-edge.

But even before the first geometrical designs were executed, the children

were losing interest. To draw your knife along the edge of a steel square

and thus get a straight linethat was easy and uninteresting. To follow the

outline of a circle-that was difficult enough, but was mechanical and dull.

And the designs when finished, even Ish had to admit, looked like bad

imitations of old-time machine-work.

The children reverted to free-running handwork, often improvising as they

went. It was more fun to do, and in the end it looked be tter also.

Best of them all at carving was Walt, although he could never read, except

in a halting stammer. But when it came to doing a frieze of cattle on the

smooth surface of a plank, Walt carved with sure touch. He did not have to

measure things out ahead, or to use the tricks of geometry. If his row of

three cows did not quite fill up the space, he merely carved a calf at the

end of the line to take up what was left. And yet, when he finished, it all

looked as if he had planned it from the beginning. He could work in low

relief, or in three-quarters, or even sometimes in the full round. The

children admired his work, and him, tremendously.

So, Ish realized, he had failed in what had seemed his shrewdly planned

attempt at using a hobby to stimulate an intellectual interest, and again

he was left with little Joey. Joey had no talent at wood-carving, but of

them all, only he had kindled at those eternal truths of line and angle

which had survived even the Great Disaster. Once Ish found him cutting

different-shaped triangles from pieces of paper and then recutting the ends

from each triangle and placing them together to form a straight line.

"Does it always work?" Ish asked.

"Yes, always. You said it always would."

"Why do you do it then?"

Joey could not explain why he did it, but Ish shared enough of the workings

of his son's mind to be sure that Joey must be really paying a kind of

homage to universal and unchangeable truth. He was as much as saying to the

powers of chance and change: "Here, make this one come out different, if

you can!" And when those dark powers could not prevail, it was again a

triumph for intellect.

So Ish was left with little Joey--spiritually, and sometimes also

physically. For, when the other children ran out of school whooping loudly,

Joey often made a point of not going, but of sitting with some

biggish-looking book, and even seeming a little superior in his attitude.

Physically, the other boys were stalwart young giants, and Joey lagged at

all sports and outdoor adventures. His head seemed big for his body, though

that might be, Ish realized, because you thought of it as containing an

undue amount of knowledge. His eyes also were big for his head, and

exceptionally quick and alert. Alone among the children, he suffered from

sick spells, with an upset stomach. Ish wondered whether these attacks were

truly physical or sprang from some emotional disturbance, but since there

was no chance of sending Joey to either a doctor or a psychiatrist, the

actuality would never be known. In any case, Joey remained underweight, and

often came home exhausted after playing with the other boys. "It's not

good!" said Ish to Em.

"No," said Em, "but still, you like him interested in books and geometry.

That's merely the other side of his not being as strong as the others."

"Yes, I suppose so. He has to find his satisfaction somewhere. But still I

wish he would get to be stronger."

"You wouldn't really have him different, would you?"

And, as she went away about some other matter, Ish thought that again she

had been right.

"No," he thought, "we have plenty of galumphing young huskies. Still I wish

he were stronger. Yet, even if he is something of a weakling, and even a

freak and a pedant, we must have one person like that, to carry on

intellectually."

And so, of all his children, his heart went out to Joey. He saw in Joey the

hope of the future, and he talked often with him, and taught him many

things.

Thus the school dragged along through those weeks while they waited for

Dick and Bob to return. Even Ish could hardly use a more optimistic word

than "dragged." Altogether there were eleven children whom he taught, or

tried to teach, that summer.

He held school in the living-room, and the eleven children came there from

all the houses. The session lasted only from nine to twelve, with a long

recess. Ish realized that he must ride them with a light rein.

He taught them arithmetic, now that he had failed in his attempt to

sugar-coat the pill of geometry. He tried to make practical applications of

arithmetic, and found it surprisingly difficult. "If A builds 30 feet of

fence..." the old book read. But nobody built any fences now, and he found

himself having to start by explaining why people once had built them--a much

more complicated matter to explain than you would think, until you tried

it. He thought of emulating the progressive school again by setting up a

shop where the pupils could buy and sell and keep accounts. But this was

not practical, for there were no more store-keepers now. He would have had

to start with a whole exposition of ancient economics.

Then he tried valiantly to present to them some of the wonders of pure

number. For himself, indeed, he was successful, and the more he tried to

tell it to the children the more he himself felt the basic quality of

mathematics to all that had been civilization. At the same time, he felt

more and more, even though he could not express it, all the wonder that lay

in the relations of one number to another. "Why is it," he would think,

"that two and two eternally make four--and not, sometimes, five? *That* has

not changed! Even though wild bulls bellow and fight in Union Square!" Thus

too, he played games with triangular numbers, showing the way they built up

one on top of the other. But except for Joey the children showed no sense

of wonder, and Ish saw their sidelong looks toward the windows when he

tried to impress them with it all.

He attempted geography also. This, his own subject, he should at least be

well qualified to teach. The boys enjoyed drawing maps of the near-by

country. But neither boys nor girls were interested in the geography of the

world as a whole. Who could blame them? Perhaps when Dick and Bob came back

in the jeep, there might be more interest. But just now the children's

horizon was limited to the few miles round about. What to them was the

shape of Europe with all of its peninsulas? What to them, the islands of

the sea?

He made a somewhat better case for history, although what he taught was

more anthropology than history. He told them of all the growth of man, that

struggling creature, who had gradually learned this, learned that, learned

to develop himself here, and restrain himself there, and through infinite

error and trouble and foolishness and cruelty, at last had achieved so

spectacularly before the end came upon him. They were mildly interested.

Yet most of his time he spent at teaching them to read and write, because

reading he felt was the key to everything else and writing was its

counterpart. But only Joey took naturally to reading, and romped ahead. He

knew the meanings of words, and grasped even the meaning of books.

*Civ-vil-eye-za-shun! That is what Uncle Ish talked about. There are lots

of quail by the stream today. Two-and-six? I know that! Why should I say it

to him? Two-and-nine? That is hard. It is more than my fingers. It is the

same as "a lot." Uncle George is more fun than Uncle Ish. He can show you

how to carve. My daddy is more fun still. He says funny things. But Uncle

Ish keeps the hammer. It is there now on the mantel. Joey makes up stories

about the hammer, I think. You can't be sure. I would like to pinch Betty

now, but Uncle Ish would not like it. Uncle Ish knows most of anybody.

Sometimes I am afraid. If I could tell him what seven and nine is, maybe we

would have civ-vil-eye-za-shun, and I could see the pictures that act like

people. Daddy used to see them. It would be fun. Eight-and-eight. Joey

knows right off. Joey is no good atfinding quail nests. Soon we can go now.

*

In spite of recurrent discouragement, Ish still kept trying, and he always

fastened quickly on any opportunity that the children themselves seemed to

offer him.

One afternoon the older boys had gone on a longer expedition than usual,

and the next morning they brought with them to school some native walnuts.

They had not seen such nuts before, and were curious. Ish quickly decided

to crack some of the nuts, and thus perhaps give a little lesson in

biology. It would be taking advantage of the children's own curiosity, and

would be following up something that they themselves had initiated.

He sent Walt outside for two stones to use in cracking the hard shells.

Walt returned with two half bricks-bricks and stones not being

distinguished in his vocabulary.

Ish ignored that detail, but he found that trying to break the hard shells

with a brick was more likely to result in a smashed finger than a smashed

nut. He cast around for something better to use, and his eyes fell upon his

hammer. It was standing, as usual, on the mantelpiece.

"Go get the hammer for me, Chris!" he said, pointing, to the little boy who

was nearest it.

Usually Chris was only too glad to spring up from his seat, and do

something active. But now a strange thing occurred. Chris glanced this way

and that, at Walt and at Weston, who were next to him. He looked

embarrassed, or alarmed.

"Go get the hammer, Chris!" Ish repeated, thinking that possibly Chris had

been day-dreaming, and had merely heard his name without noting the words

that went before.

"I--I don't want to!" said Chris, hesitantly. Chris was eight years old, and

not given to being a cry-baby, and yet Ish could see that Chris was, for

some reason, close to tears. He dropped the matter with Chris. "Bring me

the hammer, one of you others," he said. Weston looked at Walt, and Barbara

and Betty, the sisters, looked at each other too. Those four were the

oldest. All four of them looked back and forth, and did not make a move to

rise. Naturally, the little ones did nothing. But Ish could see all the

children glancing furtively at each other.

Although Ish was wholly puzzled, he saw no reason to make an issue of the

matter, and he was just about to get the hammer himself when something else

strange began to happen.

Joey rose. He walked over toward the mantelpiece. All the children's eyes

followed him. The room, Ish realized, was deathly quiet. Joey stood at the

mantelpiece. He reached out his hand, and took the hammer. There was a

strange little cry from one of the smaller girls. In the hush that

followed, Joey walked back from the mantelpiece, and gave the hammer to

Ish. Joey went back to where he had been sitting.

The room was still, and the children were looking at Joey. Joey sat down,

and Ish broke the silence by pounding on a nut with the hammer. At that

noise the tension, whatever it was, seemed to break.

Only after it had come to noon and he had dismissed school did Ish have

time to think the matter over and come, with a start, to the conclusion

that it had been a case of pure superstition. The hammer--all the children

associated it vaguely with something strange and mystical in the far past!

It was used on state occasions; it stood on the mantelpiece by itself.

Generally speaking, no one touched it except Ish. Even Bob, Ish now

remembered, had handled it with reluctance on that occasion when they had

started out with the dog-teams. The children had come to think it an

implement of power, dangerous for any of them to touch. He could see how

such an idea might have begun half seriously as a game and in a few years

have come to be taken seriously. And as for Joey, again he realized that

Joey was the one who stood out from the crowd. Perhaps Joey had not

rationally figured out that Ish's harnmer was only like any other hammer.

Perhaps, he had merely let his superstition work at a higher level, and

assumed that he had something in common with his father, such as was shown

by his reading, so that he, as the High Priest's child, the Son of the

Blessing, might touch the relics which would blast the others. Possibly

even, he might be capable of it, Joey had helped build up the superstition

in the others in order to build up his own importance. It could not be much

work, Ish decided, to overcome this superstition.

Yet that same afternoon he began to have doubts. On the sidewalk in front

of the house some children were playing. As they played, they were jumping

from one block of the sidewalk to another and crying out that old rhyme:

Step on a crack,

Break your mother's back!

Ish had heard children singing it often in the Old Times. It meant nothing

then, just a little childish rhyme. Children, as they got older, had always

learned that such things were merely childish. But now, he thought, what

would there be to teach the children that such things were mere

superstition? Here was a society with almost no stored-up tradition, and

apparently a society that was not going to develop its traditions greatly

by reading.

He sat in his easy-chair in the living-room, and heard the children,

outside, playing and shouting their rhyme. As the smoke of his cigarette

curled up, he remembered more and more disturbing evidences of

superstition. Ezra carried his pocket-piece, the old Victorian penny, and

doubtless the children looked on that much as they looked on the hammer.

Molly was a confirmed rapper on wood; Ish was disturbed when, now that he

considered, he remembered the children also rapping on wood. Would they

ever learn that that was just the thing that someone did to make himself

feel more comfortable, although it had no real meaning?

Yes, he reluctantly concluded, this matter of the children's beliefs was

extremely serious. In the Old Times the beliefs held by the children of any

family or small group of families might be momentous enough, but still

those children on growing up would come into contact with other beliefs and

make adjustments. Besides, there had been a great, even overwhelming, mass

of tradition--the tradition of Christianity, or of Western civilization, or

of Indo-European folkways, or of Anglo-American culture. Call it what you

wished, it was still so tremendous that you might say it was omnipotent,

for good or bad absorbing the individual.

But now their little community had lost much of the tradition. Part of it

had been lost because no seven survivors (Evie did not count) could

preserve and transmit all of it. Part had been lost because for so long a

time there had been no big children to pass on the tradition to the small

ones. The oldest of the younger generation had been taught games by their

parents, not by older comrades. The community should therefore be plastic

to an unprecedented degree. This was an opportunity, but also a

responsibility--and a danger.

It would be a danger--and he shuddered at the thought--if any evil force,

such as a demagogue, should begin to work.

To be sure, he recollected wryly, he had not found the children

particularly plastic as regards learning to read! Yet that might be only

that a stronger force---the whole environment--was already working against

his efforts.

But take now again this matter of superstition. Perhaps this all had grown

up because, as it happened, there was no one in The Tribe who was

creatively religious. Perhaps there was some kind of vacuum in the childish

mind, and it had to be filled up with supernatural beliefs. Perhaps all

this represented some kind of subconscious straining toward an explanation

of the basis of life itself.

Years ago they had organized those church services, and then discontinued

them as meaningless. That discontinuance might have been a mistake.

Now, more certainly even than before, he knew that he had the opportunity

to be the founder of a religion for a whole people. What he told the

children in school, they would probably believe. He could insure their

memory of it by mere insistence and iteration. He could tell them that the

Lord God created the world in six days, and found it good. They would

believe. He could tell them a local Indian legend that the world was the

work of Old Man Coyote. They would believe.

Yet what could he really tell them in honesty? He might tell them any one

of half a dozen theories of cosmogony which he remembered from his old

studies. Probably they would believe these too, although their

complications did not make for quite as good a story as one of those

others.

Actually, no matter what he said, it might easily be twisted and made into

some kind of religion. Again, as years before, he revolted from the idea,

for he treasured the honesty of his own skepticism.

"It's better," he thought in words, remembering some bit of reading, "to

have no opinion of God at all than to have one that is unworthy of Him."

He lighted another cigarette, and settled back into the chair again... Yet

this matter of the vacuum! It worried him. Unless it could be positively

filled, his own descendants at the third or fourth generation might be

practicing primitive rites of incantation, trembling in terror of

witchcraft, and experimenting with ritualistic cannibalism. They might

believe in voodoo, in shamanism, in taboo...!

He started, almost guiltily. Yes, already there were beliefs in The Tribe

which approached the intensity of taboo, and he himself was inadvertently

their chief author.

There was the matter of Evie, for instance. He and Em and Ezra had talked

it over long ago. They wanted no half-witted children of Evie's--to be a

care and drag. So they had made her, at least for the boys, a kind of

untouchable. Evie, with her blond hair and startled blue eyes, was perhaps

the best-looking girl of them all. But Ish was sure that none of the boys

had even seriously considered her. Probably they had no specific idea that

anything would happen to them if they did, but such action was merely

outside their scope of imagination. The prohibition was stronger than law.

Such a one you could only call taboo.

Again, there was all the allied matter of fidelity. Always fearing the

disruption of quarrels arising from jealousy, the older men had not so much

taught marital fidelity as assumed it. Young people had been married at the

earliest possible moment. Ezra's bigamy, having always been present, was

not questioned. Although Ish did not doubt the utility of this practice for

their particular situation, still its acceptance as a matter of faith

rather than of reason seemed to come close to taboo. The first

violation--and there would surely be one--might bring a tremendous shock.

A third possible example of taboo, though a minor matter perhaps, was the

turning of the University Library into a sacrosanct building. Once, when

the oldest boys were youngsters, Ish had gone with them on a long walk

which had taken them to the campus. While he was napping, two of them had

worked loose a board which, long before, he had nailed across the broken

window; they had gone into the stacks, and started throwing books onto the

floor. Horror-stricken with a sense of the violation of that great treasure

house, Ish had followed them. He had been ashamed of himself later, but at

the moment he had been outraged beyond reason and had beaten the boys. The

very unreasoning quality of his rage and horror must have impressed them

much more than the beating. They had certainly passed this impression on to

the younger children. The Library had been safe, and Ish had been pleased.

But this might also be called an example of taboo, and now he wondered.

There was a fourth one too, of course--but this brought him back to where he

had started. He got out of the chair and went to the mantelpiece.

The hammer was there, as he himself had replaced it. He had not asked any

child to take it back, not even Joey. He had preferred not to raise the

issue again.

There it stood, balanced on its four-pound head of dull, rust-pitted steel.

The hammer had been with him a long time. He had found it just before the

rattlesnake had struck him, and so it might be called his oldest friend. It

had been with him longer than Em or Ezra.

He looked at it curiously, considering it carefully and selfconsciously.

The handle was actually in bad shape. It had weathered from lying so long

in the open, and even before the hammer had been left to lie, the handle

had apparently been banged accidentally against a rock and cracked a

little. What was the wood? He really did not know. Ash or hickory, he

supposed. Hickory, most likely.

The simplest thing, he concluded impetuously, would be to get rid of the

hammer. He could throw it into the Bay. No, he reconsidered, that would be

merely treating the ssymptom, not the disease. With the hammer removed, the

children's tendency to superstition would still remain, and would merely

fix upon something else, and perhaps take some more sinister form.

He thought of destroying the hammer, as a symbolical leson to the children

that it had no strength in itself. But he remembered that he did not

actually have the power to destroy it. The handle he could burn easily, but

the steel head was next to indestructible by any means at his disposal.

Even if he found a carboy of acid and dissolved the steel in it, to go to

so much trouble would make the children think that the hammer must really

have possessed some deep-seated power.

So he looked at the hammer with new interest, as something which was coming

to have a life and power of its own. Yes, it had the qualities which went

toward the making of a good symbol--permanence, entity, strength. Its

phallic suggestion was obvious. Curiously, as he thought now, he had never

named it, though men were likely to give names to weapons, which also were

symbols of power--Madelon and Brown Bess and Killdeer and Excalibur. Hammers

had been signs of godhead before this; Thor had carried a hammer, probably

other gods too. Among kings there had been that old Frankish one who drove

back the Saracens--Martel, they had called him, Charles of the Hammer! *Ish

of the Hammer!*

Thus, for one reason or another, when the children reassembled in school

the next morning, Ish said nothing about superstition. It would be better,

he told himself, to bide his time a little, to observe more closely for a

day or two, or a week. Most of all, he wished to learn more about Joey.

As the result of this observation, over a period of some weeks, Ish came to

the conclusion, somewhat reluctantly, that Joey had many of the qualities

of a first-class brat. He had passed his tenth birthday during the summer.

His precocity was sometimes painful; he was, in the old phrase, "too big

for his britches." In age, he was half way between Walt and Weston, who

were twelve, and Chris, who was eight. But Joey's precocity put him

naturally into the company of the two older boys, and he and the younger

one had nothing in common. This must be hard on Joey, Ish concluded,

because he was always overreaching to attain the physical power of boys two

years older and naturally stronger as well. Josey, his own twin, he

neglected also, for he was at a stage when boys had no interest in girls,

and Josey, besides, was not nearly so bright as he.

There was thus, Ish saw, always a kind of strain about what Joey was doing

or trying to do. Again and again Ish thought of that little incident in

which the other children had been afraid to pick up the hammer, but had

acquiesced in Joey's doing something that they themselves did not dare to

do. Obviously, in their minds, there was some kind of power inherent in

Joey. Ish thought far back to the times of his studies, and he remembered

the wide-spread belief that certain members of a tribe had a special power

within them. *Mana,* the anthropologists had called it. Perhaps the

children believed that Joey had *mana;* possibly Joey himself believed it.

Yet, though Ish recognized Joey's limitations and disabilities and bad

qualities, still he kept his thought centered more on Joey than on any of

the others. Joey held the hope for the future. Only by the power of

intelligence, Ish believed firmly, had mankind ever risen to civilization,

and only by further exercise of that same power, would mankind ever rise

again. And Joey possessed intelligence. Possibly also he possessed that

other power. *Mana* might be a fallacy of simple minds, but even the most

civilized peoples had realized that certain individuals carried within them

some strange power that went for leadership. Had anyone ever explained why

certain men became leaders, and others, though they seemed better

qualified, did not?

How much of all this did Joey realize? Many times Ish asked himself the

question, but he could not as yet answer it. Yet more and more, as the

summer progressed, he felt that in Joey lay the hope of the future.

All mysticism aside! All idea of *mana* discounted! Still, only Joey could

keep the light burning through this dark time.

Only he could store up and transmit the great tradition of mankind!

But mere acquisition of knowledge was not all in which Joey excelled. Even

though he was only ten, he was beginning to branch out for himself, to

experiment, to discover things on his own. Indeed, that was the way he had

really taught himself to read in the beginning. To be sure, all this

development was still at a childish level.

There was that matter of the jig-saw puzzles, for instance. The children

had developed a sudden craze for the puzzles, and had set about rifling

some of the stores. Ish had watched them at their play, and at first Joey

had not been as good as the others. He seemed to lack some basic spatial

sense. Sometimes he tried to join pieces which obviously did not fit, and

the others indignantly told him so. Joey had been irked at his inferiority,

and for a while had withdrawn from the game.

Then Joey had suddenly got a new idea of how to go about it. He collected

himself a number of pieces bearing the same shade of yellow, and thus was

able to put them together more rapidly and make better progress than the

other children.

When he proudly displayed what he had done, the others were impressed. But

even after he had explained his system, they did not want to adopt it.

"What's the use anyway!" Weston had argued. "We might be able to do it

faster your way, but it wouldn't be any more fun, and nobody cares how soon

we get this finished."

Betty had agreed. "Yes, it's no fun just going through all the work,

picking up the yellow pieces and the blue pieces and the red pieces, and

putting them in different places!"

Joey, Ish noticed, could not put up a good argument for his method, and yet

Ish could understand his motives. In the first place, granted there was no

need to finish the puzzle in a hurry, still to work efficiently was just as

natural and as pleasant for Joey as not to crawl when he could walk.

Besides, he had the competitive spirit, the old-time drive, so

characteristic of Americans, for getting to the front. Lacking a native

gift for distinguishing shapes, really as much a physical endowment as

having strong muscles, he had seen the way to take the lead by intellectual

means. He had "used his head," as they once had liked to say.

Though the "discovery" was at all remarkable only because made by so young

a child, still Ish was pleased to note that it was the discovery of one

phase of classification, that basic tool of man's progress. Logic rested

upon classification; language, too--by its nouns and verbs grouping things

and actions into neat workable compartments. Only by his discovery of

classification had man been able to impose some workable degree of order

upon the infinite apparent disorder of the natural world.

Ish saw Joey's experimental mind also at work with language. To him

language was not merely a practical matter, an unconscious implement used

to express wants and feelings. Language to him was also a wonderful

plaything. He had, for instance, a sense of puns and of rhymes, although

none of the other children showed much interest in such things. He liked

riddles.

One day Ish heard him asking a riddle of the other children. "I made this

one up myself," Joey was saying proudly. "Why are a man, a bull, a fish,

and a snake all alike?"

The other children were not much interested.

"Because they all eat things," Betty suggested languidly.

"That's too simple," said Joey. "Everything eats things. Birds eat things

too."

They made one or two other suggestions, and then there came up a suggestion

to run off and do something else. Joey saw that he was in immediate danger

of losing his audience; to prevent complete anticlimax, he had to come out

with his own answer. "Why, they're all alike because not one of them can

fly!"

At the moment Ish was not impressed with the riddle, but as he thought

about it afterwards. he felt that it was a highly developed and curious

kind of ten-year-old mind which could evolve the idea of negative likeness.

And into Ish's mind popped suddenly an old definition: "Genius is the

capacity for seeing what is not there." Of course, like every other

definition of genius, that one could be shot to pieces also, because it

obviously included the madman, as well as the genius. Yet there might be

something in it, too; the great thinkers of the world must necessarily have

made their reputations by sensing what was not there and looking for it and

discovering it, but the first requisite for making the discovery, unless it

depended upon mere luck, was the realization that something unseen was

there to be discovered, something lacking in the picture.

This was Joey's summer for experiment apparently, and one day he came home

reeling strangely and with a strong smell of liquor on his breath. The

story came out that he, along with Walt and Weston, had visited one of the

liquorstores in the nearest business district. This was a problem that Ish

had often considered. He had once even gone into one of the stores and

started opening and emptying the bottles. After an hour's work, however, he

had found that he had made too little progress; the project was obviously

impossible, and the children must take their chances with an unlimited

liquor supply. And yet, when he thought about it, the situation for his

children was not so different from that which he himself had experienced.

In those days his father had always had a shelf holding a bottle or two of

whiskey and brandy and sherry, and there would have been nothing to stop

Ish from carrying on a clandestine experiment of his own. He had not, and

so also his own children and grandchildren apparently were not greatly

attracted by the unlimited stores available to them. In fact, drunkenness

had never been a problem in the community at all. Perhaps the simpler life

they were leading took away the need for such stimulation, or perhaps the

mere fact that alcohol, like air, was free to everyone, removed the lure of

difficulty which had previously surrounded it.

As for Joey, Ish was pleased to see that the little fellow had still been

sufficiently clever to drink only a small amount--not enough to make him

really sick or even to make him pass out. He had obviously again been

showing off before the older boys, and had again succeeded in impressing

them; they had come home in worse shape than he.

Nevertheless Joey was definitely tipsy, and made no objection to being put

immediately to bed. ish took the opportunity to sit at the bedside, and to

deliver a lecture on the dangers of too much and too reckless

experimentation, particularly if it was designed chiefly to show off before

others. He looked down at the small face in the bed, with its big eyes.

There was intelligence in the eyes, and he knew that in spite of being

tipsy, Joey was comprehending. There was also sympathy in the eyes, as if

they were again saying to Ish, "We understand together. We both know

things. We are not like these others."

In a sudden flood of affection for his youngest son, Ish reached down and

took one of the little hands in his own. He saw an answering look of

affection come into the big eyes, and suddenly Ish knew that behind all the

boyish bumptiousness, Joey was really a timid. sensitive child, just as he

himself had once been. In fact, Joey's brashness was only the expression of

timidity gone too far the other way.

"Joey, boy," he said impulsively, "why do you keep straining so hard?

Weston and Walt-they're two years older than you are. Why don't you go

easier? In ten years-twenty years-you'll be away ahead of anything they can

do."

He saw the boy smile slightly, happily. But Ish knew that the happiness was

merely that a new-found sympathy with his father, not at an impression that

the words might have made. Any child, even a precocious one like Joey,

lived in the present; to talk of ten years away was merely, for a child, to

talk of centuries.

Ish looked at the little face again, and he saw the eyes roll slightly

outward with drunkenness and sleepiness, and there was incongruity in the

two. Yet Ish felt this love for his son welling up more strongly than ever

within him. "This one, this one," he thought, "is the Child of the

Blessing! This one will carry on!"

He saw the eyes lose focus. and the eyelids drop shut, and so he spoke no

more, but he sat there by the bed, holding the hand in his own. Then,

perhaps because sleep is so like death, a horrible fear swept in upon him.

"Hostages to fortune!" he thought. When a man loved greatly, he laid

himself open. He himself had had good luck. He had loved greatly with Em,

and now, again perhaps, with Joey. With Em he had had the luck--but then one

could never even think of Em in terms of death. She was the stronger. With

Joey it was different. Holding the hand, he could feel the faint throb of

the pulse in the wrist, and it seemed very close to the surface. A mere

scratch would be enough. What were the chances for a little boy, not strong

of body, driven on always by too powerful a mind?

Yet, this might be the one who could shape the whole future. He had only to

grow in stature and in mind, to gain wisdom with the years, and to live.

*Between the plan and the fulfillment lies always the hazard. Heart-beat

flutters, knife flashes, horse stumbles, cancer grows, more subtle foes

invade....*

*Then they sit around the fire at the cave-mouth, and say, "What shall we

do? Now that he is no longer here to lead us!" Or, while the great bell

tolls, they gather in the courtyard, and say, "It should not have happened

so. Who is there now to give us counsel?" Or they meet at the

street-corner, and say sadly, "Why did it have to be this way? Now there is

no one to take his place. "*

*Through all of history it runs as a plaint. "If the young king had not

fallen ill.... If the prince had lived.... If the general had not so

recklessly exposed himself.... If the president had not overworked...."*

*Between the plan and the fulfillment stands always the frail barrier of a

human life. *

Once more the fogs thinned out, and then came the first hot days. "I have

seen it again," Ish thought to himself. "The great pageant of the year! Now

is the time of dryness and death. Now the god lies dying. Soon the rains

will come, and then the hills will be green. At last one morning I shall

look out westward, here from the porch, and I shall see the sun setting far

to the south. Then we shall all go together, and I shall carve the number

into the rock. What shall we call this Year, I wonder!"

By now also it was time to be expecting Dick and Bob to return from their

expedition in the jeep. Ish still worried and felt guilty sometimes at

having allowed the boys to go, but now they had been gone so long that he

was somewhat accustomed to the idea and did not feel the strain so much as

he had earlier. And at the same time he had another worry and sense of

guilt that tended to counteract this one.

The children! Their superstition and their ideas about religion! He had

said to himself that all this would be easy to counteract; he had said that

he would do something that next day. Yet all summer he had been flinching.

Was it actually that he did not want to do anything? Did he really want the

children to think of Joey as the possessor of some special power? Deep

within himself, did he want the children to think of him, Ish, as a god?

Not every day or every year could a man have reason to play with the

intoxicating idea that he was becoming a god. Oh, well--say, at least a

demi-god, a being of some degree of special power!

Ever since the incident of the hammer, he had been studying curiously the

children's attitude toward him. It was changeable and uncertain. Sometimes,

he sensed that feeling of awe which he had seen on that day of the incident

with the hammer. He, like Joey, but even more so, had *mana* within him. He

could perform strange feats. He knew the meanings of the puzzling words. He

knew the curious ways of numbers. He knew, by some strange power, what the

world was like, away beyond the horizon, out through the Golden Gate, that

there were islands far in the ocean beyond the little rock-tips of the

Farallones, that they sometimes saw standing up above the horizon on clear

days.

The children, he came to realize, were not only children, but they were

also unsophisticated and inexperienced as children in the Old Times had

rarely been. None of them had ever seen more than a few dozen people.

Though their lives, he believed, had been happy, they had been happy with

the simplicity of a few satisfying experiences, repeated again and again.

They had not suffered the continual shock of change which had so affected

children in the old days, both for good and for bad, making them nervous on

the one hand, and yet alert on the other.

Children so unsophisticated might easily come to feel a certain dread of

him, to regard him as a being with powers different from their own, not

altogether earthly. At times he sensed this feeling and even saw definite

evidences of it.

Yet at other times, indeed generally, he was merely their own father or

grandfather, or Uncle Ish, a person they had known all their lives, with

whom they had romped on the floor when they were little. They had no more

respect for such a person than children ever had. In fact the bigger ones

already showed the adolescent feeling that the older man was blundering and

quite obtuse. Perhaps they stood in some awe, but still they played tricks

on him.

Once, not a week after the incident of the hammer, they had set a tack for

him in his chair, though that was one of the oldest of all tricks to play

on a teacher. And again, after they had left the room with much suppressed

giggling, Ish discovered that someone had worked that other old trick of

pinning a strip of cloth to his rear, so that it hung down like a white

tail behind.

Ish accepted such tricks in good spirit, and did not attempt to find out

which one of the children had done them or to inflict any punishment. In

some ways the tricks pleased him, for they showed him that children

considered him one of themselves. But the tricks also chagrined him a

little. His ego was not above being pleased with the belief that he was a

folk-hero or demi-god. Was this a way to treat a demi-god, by putting tacks

on his chair or pinning a tail on him, behind? Yet, as he thought farther,

he realized that the two attitudes were not incompatible or altogether

unprecedented.

*That is a strange thing--to be a god! They bring the fat ox with the gilded

horns, and at your altar they strike him down With the pole-ax. You are

proud of the sacrifice. But then they take head and horns and tail and

hide, and in the hide they wrap the entrails. All this noisomeness they

burn before your altar, and then go to feast themselves on the fat

haunches! You see the deceit, and you are angry with a god's anger. You

gather the thunderbolts, and your black clouds assemble. But, no, you think

then, "They are my people!" This year they are fat and proud and

insolent--but who would wish his people to be mean and meeching? Next year,

if there is pestilence, they will really burn the ox--nay, many oxen! So you

pass it off, with only a little thunder, scarcely noticed in the pleasant

confusion of the feasting. "I am not stupid," you say to The Son, "but

there are times when a god should seem stupid!" Then you wonder if you

should have shared with him any secret of godship, but rather have looked

for a convenient mountain to pile upon him. He is altogether too handy with

a sickle these days.... *

*Even you terrible ones who call for human sacrifice, you too must wink!

Ah, it is magnificently horrible! The shrieks of his wife and the moans of

the victim and the flailing axes of the killers! There he lies, covered

with blood, his tongue hanging out, a picture of loathsome death! Yet soon,

in the confusion of the dance, he rises suddenly and dances with the others

and the red mulberry juice mingles with his sweat and disappears. Then you,

the terrible one, must be a wise god and remember only the horror of the

seeming death, though every child in the village knows you are tricked....*

*"No, there is no need to grovel and rub the face in the dirt. Merely bow

the head, as you enter, ever so slightly." *

Yet in the end, though he half feared the test, Ish could not resist an

experiment. Perhaps the incident of the hammer had really meant nothing. He

was curious.

He picked the time carefully--late one morning, when it was only a few

minutes before dismissal. He was preparing himself a retreat, if things got

too embarrassing. There was no difficulty, since he was the teacher, in

bringing a discussion around to the point where he could put the question

casually enough.

"How was it. do you think, that all these things..." he gestured widely

with his hands, "how was it that the world happened to be made?"

The answer came quickly. Weston was the spokesman, although apparently any

of the children could have answered: "Why, the *Americans* made

everything."

Ish caught his breath. Yet, immediately, he saw how the idea had arisen.

After all, if a child asked who made the houses or the streets or the

canned food, any of the older ones would have said naturally that the

Americans did. He followed up with another question.

"And the Americans--what about them?"

"Oh, the Americans were the old people."

This time Ish found it a little harder to adjust quickly. In "the old

people" he sensed not merely a reference to time, but also something close

to superstition. "The old people"--that had once meant fairies, people of

the Other-world. That might be its meaning now again. Here was something he

should work to counteract.

"I was..." He began simply. Then he paused and corrected himself, seeing no

reason to use the past tense.

*"I am an American."*

When he spoke, though they were the simplest of words, he had a curious

feeling of pride come over him, as if flags were flying and bands playing.

It had been a great thing, in those Old Times, to be an American. You had

been deeply conscious of being one of a great nation. It was no mere matter

of pride, but also there went with it a profound sense of confidence and

security in life, and a comradeship of millions. Yet now he had hesitated

to speak in the present tense.

In the silence of his pause he saw the children looking at him, and then

suddenly he sensed that his explanation had missed fire. He had merely been

trying to explain that there was nothing supernatural in those old people

who had been the Americans. He had tried merely to say, "Look at me, I'm

Ish, father of some of you, granddad of one. I've rolled on the floor with

you. You've mussed my hair. Yes, I'm only Ish. And now when I say, 'I'm an

American,' I mean that there is nothing supernatural about Americans. They

were only people too."

This was what he had thought they would understand, but it had gone the

other way round. When he had said, "I am an American," they had nodded

inwardly, interpreting, "Yes, naturally, you are an American. You have many

strange knowledges which we simple ones do not have. You teach us reading

and writing. You tell tales about the world being round. You talk about

numbers. You carry the hammer. Yes, it is plain that people like you made

all the world, and you are merely one who lingers over from the Old Times.

You *are* one of the Old People. Yes, naturally *you* are an American!"

As he looked about, almost wildly at this new thought, the silence was

deep, and he saw Joey smiling at him. It was a knowing smile, as if Joey

was saying, "We two have something in common. I am like one of the Old

People who has been left over. I can read; I understand those things.

Without being hurt, I carry the hammer."

Ish was glad that he had had the foresight to ask his question just before

noon. There was nothing he could muster now, either for question or reply.

"School dismissed," he said. *"School dismissed!"*

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 6*

One late afternoon Ish was talking with Joey, or actually they were

continuing Joey's education by means of playschool. Ish had collected some

money, and was teaching Joey a little about history and the old economics.

Joey liked the bright jingly nickels with the figure of the strange humped

animal. As a young child would have done even in the Old Times, he

preferred the nickels to the uninteresting bills with their picture of a

bearded man who looked something like Uncle George. Ish was trying to find

ways to explain.

Just as he thought he had put the point across, he heard a strange and yet

old and familiar sound. He lifted his head and waited tensely, mouth open

to listen. It came again, much closer--the *toot-a-toot-toot* of a horn!

"Hey, Em!" he yelled. "They're back!" He jumped up, letting the bills

scatter from his hand to the floor.

He and Em and the children all came rushing out, and there was a universal

running and yapping of dogs, just as the jeep came down the road. It was

dirty and travel-worn and banged-about, but it had got through. Ish had

still a moment of tension. Then the boys jumped out, yelling loudly,

obviously alive and well. A sudden sense of profound relief let him know

how much he had really been worrying about them.

The boys stood there, surrounded by a little mob of yelling children. Ish

held back, almost diffident. Then his eyes caught another movement. There

must be someone else in the jeep. Yes, now the person was starting to get

out. Ish had a sharp sensation of alarm, of resentment, at the intruder.

First, as the head was thrust out from the low door, Ish saw a bald crown

and a brown beard, which would have been handsome if it had not been

stained with tobacco and dirty-looking, and scraggly around the edges where

it had been haggled with scissors. The man stepped out, and slowly

straightened up.

Ish, almost in panic, appraised him. A big fellow--tall and large-framed and

heavy! He was powerful, and yet there had been little vigor in his movement

as he straightened up. Yes, powerful, but with some inner trouble, and too

heavy! The pudgy fat of the thick-featured face had squeezed in upon the

eyes, narrowing them.

"Pig-eyes!" thought Ish, still in resentment.

The children were milling around, and the man stood in their midst, just as

he had stepped down from the car. He looked up, and saw Ish, and their

glances met. The man's little fat-encroached eyes were bright blue. He

smiled at Ish.

Ish smiled back, though he raised the corners of his mouth only by

conscious effort. "Should have smiled first," he was thinking. "He put me

at my ease. I should have done it with him. He's powerful, even though his

fat looks soft and unhealthy. "

Ish broke up the situation by striding forward to grasp Bob's hand. But

even as he did so, the newcomer was still in his mind--"About my age," he

was thinking. Now Bob was making the introduction.

"This is our friend Charlie!" he said simply, and he slapped Charlie on the

back.

"Glad to see you!" Ish managed to say, but even the old meaningless words

did not slide out naturally. He looked straight at the narrow blue eyes,

and in the tenseness of his look there was perhaps a conscious defiance.

No, those others were not pig-eyes. Boar's eyes! Strength and ferocity

behind the baby-blue. As they shook hands, Ish felt his own grasp the

weaker. The other could have squeezed and hurt him if he had wished.

Now Bob had taken Charlie away, to introduce him to the others. Ish felt

his resentment growing, not decreasing. "Careful!" he thought.

But he had imagined the return as a reunion with no discordant elements.

And here was Charlie!

Handsome, no doubt--in a way! A good companion--so the actions of the boys

seemed to testify! But--yes--Charlie was dirty. That thought gave a

background of rationality to the unreasoning dislike. Charlie was dirty,

and from inner reaction Ish felt himself going on to think that Charlie

must be in some way dirty inside, through and through, as well as outside.

Dirt--the ever-present dirt of the earth--that was something which bothered

Ish no more than it bothered anyone else these days. But the impression of

dirt that Ish gained from Charlie was something different. Perhaps, he

analyzed quickly, it was the clothes. Charlie was wearing what had in late

years become a rarity, a business suit. He was even wearing the vest,

because the afternoon was cold with low-drifting clouds. But the suit

seemed greasy, and you would have said that it was egg-spotted, if there

had been possibility of a man's having had eggs to eat recently.

They all went trooping up to the house suddenly, Ish with them, not

leading. The living-room was jammed. The two boys, and Charlie, held the

center. The children looked marveling at the boys, as explorers returned

from a far expedition, and they eyed Charlie with as much wonder, because

they were unused to seeing any stranger. It was one of the biggest

occasions that anyone could well imagine. Ish thought to himself it was a

time to open champagne, if he had any ice. Then he wondered why the idea

seemed ironic.

"Did you make it?" everyone was asking at once. "How far did you get? What

about that big city--what's its name?"

Yet in the midst of all the excitement, Ish felt himself sliding sidelong

looks at the greasy beard and spotted vest, and gradually resenting Charlie

more than ever.

"Watch your step," he thought to himself. "You're just being the

provincial, resenting the intrusion of anyone else who may have different

manners and ideas. You keep saying that the community needs the stimulation

of new thoughts, and yet when someone else comes in, you start resenting

him, and rationalizing to yourself, because you say, 'He's dirty on the

outside, and so must have something dirty about him on the inside.'

Relax--this is a great day!" Nevertheless, all thought of its being a great

day went sour inside him.

"No," Bob was saying, "we never got to New York. We got to that other big

city--Chicago. But past there the roads kept getting worse and worse--trees

grown up, trees fallen around everywhere, lots of washouts, bridges gone.

So we had to shift one way or the other, looking for..."

Someone cut in with another question before Bob could even finish his

answer. There were half a dozen questions, each one canceling out the one

before. In the hubbub, Ish caught Ezra's eye. In that glance he seemed

momentariiy to sense danger, and he knew that Ezra too was watching

Charlie.

Ish felt himself both reassured and justified. Ezra knew people, Ezra liked

people. If Ezra was so quickly perturbed at Charlie, there must be

something about which to be wary. Ish trusted Ezra in such a case much

better than he trusted himself.

"Come on," he thought again. "You don't really know at all what Ezra's

thinking. Maybe he's disturbed because he senses what you're thinking. And

what's that? Maybe I'm only thrown off because I'm like any small

tribesman, and fear the horrible stranger with his new ideas and his new

gods to fight against mine."

He brought himself back to what was being said. "... wear funny clothes,"

he heard Dick's voice saying. "Long white gowns, sort of, I don't know what

you call them, and they have long white sleeves in them. The men and the

women both wear them. They threw stones at us. They yelled, 'Unclean,

unclean!' They kept crying, 'We are the people of God!' They made us keep

away."

Then Em spoke. The rich roll of her voice, deep but feminine, seemed to cut

in beneath the high-pitched almost yelping noises of the excited little

crowd. Any of the others would have had to pound on the table and shout for

attention. For her, the room grew quickly quiet, even though she did not

raise her voice and the words were common-place:

"It's late," she was saying. "Time for dinner. The boys are hungry...."

Half-witted Evie gave one last little senseless giggle, and then she too

was quiet.

Em was saying that everyone should go home now, and come back later. Ish

watched Charlie, and saw that Ezra was still watching him too. Charlie's

eyes looked at Em, perhaps a moment too long. His glance shifted to Evie's

blond hair, and took on, it might have been, an appraising look. Then

everyone was getting up, starting to go. Dick took Charlie off to dinner at

Ezra's.

After dinner had been got on the table and they were seated, there were a

great many questions to ask. Ish let Em do most of the talking with Bob.

She had all the mother's worries to settle. Had they been sick? Found

plenty to eat? Slept warm? Discussion of the trip itself was being reserved

until the others returned after dinner, and Ish felt also that he should

not pump Bob about Charlie. Yet he could not resist the temptation

entirely, and Bob showed no reticence.

"Oh," he said. "Charlie? Sure, we just picked him up about ten days ago,

down near Los Angeles. There are quite a few people, I guess, living around

Los Angeles. There are some all together, like us, and a few just

scattered. Charlie was by himself."

"Did you ask him to come along, or did he just come with you?"

Ish watched, carefully. He saw that Bob was surprised by the question, but

apparently not disturbed.

"Oh, I don't just remember. I don't know that I asked him. Maybe Dick did."

Ish dived into his thoughts again. Perhaps Charlie had reasons for wanting

to get from Los Angeles to some other place. No, that was merely slandering

a man out of prejudice without trial, and then he heard Bob going on.

"He tells lots of funny stories, Charlie does. He's a very good guy." Funny

stories, yes, and one could imagine what kind. They were frank enough in

all their language, these days; the concept of obscenity, you might say,

had disappeared, largely because there was only one word for things in

their vocabulary, at least among the younger ones. Obscenity seemed to have

died a natural death, possibly as a counterpart to the death of romantic

love. But Charlie--he might still be able to tell a dirty story. Although

Ish had never been a prude about stories, still he felt his original

resentment shifting to a kind of righteous indignation, in spite of his

continually telling himself that he really knew nothing about Charlie,

except the boys' opinions that he was a very fine person. Ish felt himself

wishing that the water had never gone off, and shocked them into doing

something about the future, and thus bringing an outsider in among them.

After dinner, they all built up a big bonfire on the hillside, and gathered

about it. There was much singing and skylarking of the youngsters. It was a

time of celebration.

There was much excitement, but the boys gradually got their story told....

They had encountered only a few minor washouts and landslides on the

highway to Los Angeles, nothing that the jeep could not negotiate in

four-wheel drive. The group of religious fanatics, wearing white nightgowns

and calling themselves the People of God, lived in Los Angeles. They had

focused upon religion, Ish assumed, under the influence of some strong

leader who had happened to survive, just as in The Tribe for lack of such a

leader, they had developed almost no interest in such things.

Out of Los Angeles, the boys had taken 66 eastward, just as Ish remembered

so vividly he had done in the days following the Great Disaster, when he

had not been much older than the boys were now. The highway across the

desert was easy and open, except for an occasional stretch where sand had

blown across. They had gone along with no more trouble than blowouts here

and there. The Colorado River bridge they had found shaky, but still

passable.

The next community was apparently at one of the old Indian pueblos near

Albuquerque. From what he could make out from the boys' description, Ish

concluded that most of the few dozen people at this little community were

not very dark in complexion, but that the dominant spirit must be Indian,

because their pattern of life was based on growing com and beans as the

Pueblo Indians had done for many hundreds of years. Only some of the older

people talked English. This community also had drawn inward upon itself,

and looked with suspicion upon the strangers. The people there had horses.

They did not drive automobiles, and they rarely went into any town.

From there, the boys had swung north to Denver, and then out eastward

across the plains.

"We followed a road," said Bob. "It's like 66, only just part of it." He

paused, hesitant. Ish thought for a minute, and then realized that the boy

was trying to describe Highway 6. Some of the markers would still be

standing along it, and Bob had sensed that they were the same shape as the

numerals on 66, although there was only one of them. Ish was embarrassed

that his own son was not sure of the numerals.

Highway 6 had led them on through the comer of Colorado, and across the

plains of Nebraska.

"Lots of cattle everywhere!" Here Dick was taking up the story. "Cattle

everywhere, you always see cattle."

"Did you ever see the big brown ones with humps on their shoulders?" asked

Ish.

"Yes, once we saw a few of them," said Dick.

"How about the grass? Does any of it grow straight and stiff looking, with

a head on the end, and little grains forming. When you went through they

should have been still soft and milky, perhaps. When you came back, you

might have seen it somewhere standing all golden. with the grain hard. We

called it'wheat.'"

"No. We saw nothing like that."

"And how about com? You know what that is. They were growing it there by

the Rio Grande."

"No, there is no corn growing wild anywhere."

Onward still they had gone, finding the roads now blocked more often, since

they had come to the wetter country with ranker and faster growth and

heavier rains, combined with hard frosts in winter. The highways were

splitting up into great chunks and blocks as the frost worked under them,

wherever the surface was cracked, grass and weeds, and even bushes and

young trees were springing up to block the way. Yet they had crossed what

was once Iowa.

"We came to the big river," said Bob. "it is the biggest of all, but the

bridge was good."

They had come to Chicago, but it was a mere desert of empty streets. It

would be an inhospitable place, thought Ish, when the winter winds swept in

from Lake Michigan. He was not surprised that people, with the whole

continent to choose from, had drifted away from the once great city by the

lake, leaving it ghost-like behind.

Leaving Chicago, the boys had lost themselves in the maze of roads in the

outskirts, and had ended up (the day was cloudy, and they lost direction)

by going south instead of east.

"After that," said Bob, "we got one of these things out of a store. It

points direction--" And he looked at Ish for the word.

"Yes, a compass," said Ish.

"We hadn't needed one before, but now we used it and got going east again,

until we came to the river we couldn't cross."

Ish figured out quickly that it might have been the Wabash. Floods of

twenty-two years, or--more likely--just one great flood, had swept away the

bridges. After exploring southward and finding no passage, the boys had had

to go northward to Highway 6 again, which more or less followed a height of

land.

The progress eastward had become more and more laborious. Floods,

windstorms, and frost had transformed the once open and smooth highways

into rough lines of concrete chunks strewn with gravel from washouts,

overgrown with vegetation, and crisscrossed with fallen tree-trunks.

Sometimes the jeep could push through the bushes or detour the tree-trunks.

But often the boys had had to make a passageway with ax or shovel, and the

constant work wore them down. Also the loneliness began to oppress them.

"There was a cold day with a north wind," Dick confessed, "and we were

afraid. We remembered what you used to tell us about snow, and we thought

we might never get home."

Somewhere, probably near Toledo, they had turned back. At turning back, a

kind of panic came upon them. At the same time heavy rains began to fall,

and the roads were often flooded. They had the fear that some of the

bridges over the larger rivers might be carried away, leaving them cut off

from their own people. They had not tried to go south, as Ish had wished,

but had back-tracked along their own trail, gradually being reassured by

their ability to get back to places that they had seen already. On their

return home, therefore, they had learned little that they had not learned

on the way east.

Ish did not blame them at all. In fact, he thought that they had acted with

great determination and intelligence. He blamed himself, if anyone--for

sending the boys toward Chicago and New York, the great cities of the Old

Times. He might have done better to have chosen some southern route toward

Houston and New Orleans, instead of a route into the inhospitable country

of northern winters. And yet, east of Houston at least, floods would have

been more severe and growth of vegetation much more rapid than farther

north. Because of the climate, Arkansas and Louisiana would have reverted

to impassable wilderness much sooner than Iowa and Illinois.

The children were dancing and shouting around the bonfire. Was there a kind

of wild primitiveness in the scene, or was that merely his imagining?

Perhaps any children would have done the same. Evie, who of course was

mentally a child, was dancing with them. Her blond hair streamed

spectacularly behind her.

Ish sat, looking on, and thinking. Well, the chief result of the expedition

was not the discovery that the country was returning to the wilderness.

Anybody would have known that! The important thing was the making of

contact with two other communities. That is, if you could call it contact,

when the other communities were fighting off all advances from strangers.

Was that from mere blind prejudice, or was it from some deep instinct of

self-preservation?

Yet, at least, to know that there were people in Los Angeles and near

Albuquerque--growing communities--took away a little of that basic feeling of

loneliness.

Two little groups of people, discovered on a single trip, going and coming

by the same road! At that rate, there should be several dozen in the area

of the whole United States. He remembered the Negroes whom he had seen in

Arkansas, long ago. In that rich country of easy winters, there was no

reason in the world why those three should not have survived and become a

nucleus to which others, either black or white, could attach themselves.

Yet that community in its ways of life and thought would be vastly

different from the one in New Mexico and from either of the two in

California. This divergence opened vast questions for the distant future.

But this was no time to be carrying philosophical speculation far into the

future. The dancing and shouting of the children around the fire had become

even more bacchanalian. In the excitement the older boys, even some of the

married ones, were joining the revel. They were playing crack-the-whip, an

the more exciting because the one who was thrown off the end of the whip

had to dodge the fire. Suddenly Ish felt himself stiffen. Charlie was

playing! In the line, linked between Dick and Evie, he was swinging the

whip. The children were obviously delighted to have a grown-up, especially

this stranger, playing with them.

Ish tried to argue down his resentment. Why not? Why shouldn't one of the

older ones play that way? Me--I'm just as bad as those people in Los Angeles

and Albuquerque, not wanting to accept the stranger! Yet I don't think I'd

have minded, if Charlie had been a different kind of person.

But, try as he could, Ish felt himself unable to stifle some deep-seated

sense of dislike. He began to revise his estimate of the importance of the

boys' trip. However important the discovery of the other communities could

be for the distant future, the immediate problem was Charlie.

By now it was getting late. and mothers were gathering their children. But

after the celebration was over, most of the older ones went home with Ish

and Em, to hear still more from the two boys and from Charlie.

"Sit here," said Ezra to Charlie, pointing to the big chair in front of the

fireplace. It was a place of honor, and comfort too, and Ish thought how

characteristic that was of Ezra, to sense the human relationship so

quickly. He himself, though he was host, had not thought of it, and so had

not been able to make Charlie feel really welcome. And then he wondered, in

quick reaction, whether he really wanted to make Charlie feel at home.

It was a chilly evening, and Ezra called for a fire. The boys brought some

wood, and before long the sticks were blazing cheerily. The room grew

comfortably warm.

They talked, Ezra leading the conversation, as usual. Charlie asked if he

might have a drink. Jack brought him a bottle of brandy and a glass. He

drank steadily, but with the habitual drinker's slow absorption. He gave no

sign of either excitement or drunkenness.

"I'm still chilly," said Ezra.

"You're not getting sick, are you?" said Em.

Ish himself felt a little chill of uneasiness. Sickness was so uncommon

with them that any occurrence of it was a matter of note.

"Don't know," said Ezra. "If this was the Old Times, I'd think I was

getting a cold. Of course, it can't be that now."

They piled more wood on the fire, and the room grew so uncomfortable to Ish

that he took off his sweater and sat in his shirt sleeves. Then Charlie

took off his coat also, and unbuttoned his vest, but did not take it off.

George comfortably settled down into his end of the davenport, and went to

sleep. His absence did not make much difference in the conversation.

Charlie continued his work on the bottle of brandy, but still it made no

difference to him except that from the heat of the fire and from the

brandy, his forehead was greasy with perspiration.

Ish could tell now that Ezra was swinging the conversation around, this way

and that, to get more information about Charlie's background. But finesse

seemed not to be required, for Charlie talked frankly enough whenever the

subject came close to him.

"So after she croaked--" he said. "That was after we'd lived together for

quite a few years, ten or twelve, I guess. Well, after my woman died, I

didn't want to stay there no more, not around that place. So, when your

boys came along, and I liked them, I picked up and came."

As Charlie talked, Ish began to feel himself swinging in the other

direction again. The boys liked Charlie immensely, and they had been with

him for some time already. There was strength in Charlie, and charm also.

Perhaps he would be a good man to add to the community. He noticed now that

whole beads of sweat were standing out on Charlie's forehead.

"Charlie," he said, "you'd better take that vest off and be comfortable."

Charlie started, but did not say anything.

"I'm sorry," Ezra said. "I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I'd

better go home, get to bed." But he made no move to go.

"Surely you can't be getting a cold, Ez," said Em. "There's never been a

cold!"

They persuaded Charlie to move, himself and his brandy bottle, to a place

farther from the fire, but he kept his vest on.

Charlie sat there, and the two house-dogs came nuzzling around him.

Obviously, even the dogs were interested in the stranger; he must mean a

lot of new smells. But they sensed that the stranger had been received.

Although at first they were merely neutral, soon they relaxed comfortably

under Charlie's pulling of their ears and scratching of their backs. Their

tails wagged.

Ish, always realizing that people were likely to baffle him, felt himself

swing back and forth. Now he sensed both power and charm in Charlie, and

felt almost warm toward him. And then the very sense of power and charm

caused him to react, perhaps with fear for his own position as a dominant

force in the community, and he felt Charlie only as a thing of evil.

At last George woke from his nap, stretched his big body and rose, saying

that it was time for him to get home to bed. The others made ready to go

with him. Ish knew that Ezra would want to say a word to him personally

before going, and so he drew Ezra aside into the kitchen.

"You feeling bad?"

"Me? No," said Ezra. "Never felt better in my life."

Ezra smiled, and Ish began to see light. "You weren't chilly?" he asked.

"Never felt less chilly in my life," said Ezra. "Just wanted to see if we

could make Charlie take his vest off. I didn't think we could. He don't

like to be away from it. Makes me pretty sure about what I think I see

anyway. He's got a vest-pocket he's deepened himself, enlarged it. He's got

in it one of those little things they used to make for ladies to carry

around in their purses--just a small piece of hardware!"

Ish had a sudden sense of relief. Anything as simple and concrete as a

pistol--that could be handled! His relief faded as Ezra went on:

"I wish I was sure about him. Sometimes I think there's something ugly and

dirty and mean--clear to the middle of him. Sometimes I think he'll be my

best friend. Always, though, I know he's one that knows what he wants and

generally gets it."

When they went back to the living-room, George was just leaving.

"This is the best thing that's happened to us for a long time," he was

saying to Charlie. "We've needed another strong man. We hope you stay with

us."

There was a general confirmation chorus from the others, as all of them,

Charlie and Ezra included, went out the door.

Ish was left standing with his thoughts. He had tried to join in the choru,

but his tongue had been suddenly stiff and his mouth dry. All he could

think now was: "Something dirty and ugly and mean--clear to the middle of

him."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 7*

After they had gone, Ish thought of something that he had not done during

all those years. In fact, after he had decided to do it, he was not sure

whether he still could. Yet, when he went into the kitchen, he found that

there was a bolt on the back door. He could remember his mother having had

it put there because she never trusted ordinary locks. He shot that bolt.

Then he went to the front door, and found that there was still a workable

night-latch.

In all these years, there had been no need to secure a door. No one in the

community was to be feared; no stranger, if there had been one, would have

had a chance of getting through the cordon of dogs. But now there was

someone, perhaps not to be trusted, and he had made friends with the dogs.

Had that patting of the dogs had calculation behind it?

When Ish had gone to bed and shared his apprehensions with Em, he found her

not very responsive. Sometimes, he realized, she was too all-accepting for

him.

"What's so remarkable about him carrying a gun?" she said. "You carry one

yourself, lots of the time, don't you?"

"Not concealed! And I'm not afraid to take my vest off, and be away from my

weapon."

"Yes, but maybe you should give him a break for being nervous and

uncomfortable, too. You don't like his looks; maybe he don't like yours.

He's among strangers--surrounded!"

Ish felt a surge of resentment, almost anger, against Charlie, the

intruder.

"Yes," he said, "but we are on the ground here; this is our place; he comes

breaking in; he must adapt himself to us; not we to him."

"You're right, darling, I guess. But anyway, let's don't talk about it any

more now. I'm going to sleep."

If there was any one thing that Ish had always envied in Em, it was her

capacity to go to sleep merely by saying so. As for him, the harder he

thought about going to sleep, the longer he was likely to take, and he

could never slow down his mind as he wanted to. Now again he felt it settle

to work. For suddenly he had had a new idea, and a disturbing one. The

trouble was, he decided, that he had to think of himself as pitted against

Charlie in a personal struggle. If The Tribe had been really drawn together

already into some firm organization, if there were some symbolic unity by

which they presented an unbroken front, then the mere advent of any

stranger, strong though he might be as an individual, would be of little

moment. Now it might be too late. The stranger had come already, and he

must be met as man to man.

And Charlie would be no mean opponent. Already he had won the loyalty and

friendship of Dick and Bob, and doubtless of others of the younger ones.

George was obviously impressed. Ezra seemed doubtful. What was this strange

charm, backed by strength?

Ish could not sense why anyone felt a liking for Charlie, but the fact was

that they did. And the fact might be also that he himself was too narrowly

prejudiced against the man, out of a spirit of rivalry, to feel Charlie's

real strength. But of one thing he began to feel certain. There would be

some contest between the two of them. Just what form this contest would

take, he could not yet know. But since they lacked the solidarity of

anything that could be called a state, the contest would be an individual

one.

Or at worst, it would be a struggle of factions with two opposing leaders.

On whom could be, Ish, depend? He was not really a leader. He had been a

leader so far, doubtless, by default-because George had been too stupid and

Ezra too easygoing to offer any competition. Oh, intellectual leadership,

yes! But in any basic struggle for power, the intellectual man went under.

He thought of the deceptively pretty eyes of baby-blue; yet they had a

coldness such as dark eyes could never show.

"Who will follow my banner?" he questioned dramatically. Even Em seemed to

be failing him. She had made light of things, almost defended Charlie. All

at once Ish felt himself the scared little boy of the Old Times. Of all

these people Joey alone was the one who could thoroughly understand, the

only one on whom he could always count. And Joey was a little boy,

physically frail even for his years. What help could he be against the rush

of Charlie's power? No, not pig-eyes, he thought again. They are a boar's

eyes!

Finally, however, he said to himself, "This is the mere madness of

midnight; these are only the wild fantasies that come to a man in the

darkness when he cannot sleep." And he managed, at last, to dismiss the

thoughts from his mind, and to sleep.

In the morning things indeed looked better--not altogether rosy, perhaps,

but at least not too dark. He ate breakfast in a good enough mood. He was

happy to see Bob at the breakfast table again, and by questioning got from

him some more details of the trip.

Then, just as he was beginning to feel comfortable, the whole thing broke

loose on him when Bob spoke.

"I guess," he said, "I'll go over and see Charlie now."

Ish felt a sudden desire to snap out a bit of fatherly advice, "I wouldn't

see so much of that fellow, if I were you." But he saw Em's eyes saying no,

and he himself knew that such advice would only make Charlie seem forbidden

and more attractive. He still kept wondering what fascination Charlie

exercised upon the two boys.

Bob went, and after the morning chores were finished, the other children

drifted off too. "What is the fascination?" said Ish to Em.

"Oh, don't worry," she said. "It's just the attraction of a stranger,

something new. Isn't that natural?"

"There is trouble ahead!"

"Perhaps," said Em, and Ish suddenly realized that that was the first time

she had admitted the possibility, and then she changed the direction of his

thoughts with a second remark, "But be careful that you're not the one who

starts the trouble. "

"What do you mean?" he snapped, angrily, although he did not often get

angry at Em. "You mean that this is just a fight for domination?"

"I think that you'd better go over and see what's happening now," she said,

disregarding his last question.

The advice seemed good in any case, for perhaps he too was curious. He

started to follow it, and just as he was opening the front door, he had a

feeling of uncertainty. He closed the door behind him, and stood on the

front porch wondering. His hands felt strangely empty; he needed something.

He felt defenseless, and he considered going back into the house to strap a

pistol on. In the vicinity of the houses they never needed to carry

firearms any more, because the dogs gave plentiful warning; but he could

make an excuse that he was going somewhere farther off. Still, he

hesitated, realizing that to carry a pistol would look like

aggression--besides, it would be a confession of his own weakness and

insecurity. Yet he could not deny his feeling of uncertainty.

He went back into the house, and immediately saw the hammer on the

mantelpiece. "So that's it!" he thought irritably. "You're as bad as the

children. You're letting the children's ideas work into you!" Nevertheless

he picked up the hammer and took it along. Its weight and solidity gave him

comfort. The handle's firm hardness filled up the emptiness of his right

hand.

Over from where the bonfire had been, he heard a sound of people laughing,

and he walked that way. He was alone, and then suddenly he felt again the

Great Loneliness.

It came upon him with paralyzing force. Once more he was the ant lost from

the hill, the bee from the destroyed hive, the motherless child! He paused

and stood still, feeling the cold sweat start. No, the United States of

America was only a name far in the past! He must act by himself, or with

what support he himself could rally. There was no policeman or sheriff, or

district attorney or judge, anywhere, to whom he could look.

He was gripping the hammer-handle so hard that his knuckles hurt. "I can't

go back!" he thought. Then he mustered all his courage, and slid one foot

forward in front of the other.

Once he was moving again, once action had succeeded thought, he felt

better. He saw them now, ahead, as he had expected, at the ashes of the

bonfire. Almost all the younger ones were there, and Ezra with them. They

stood and sat and lounged around Charlie, and he was telling them things,

laughing and joking as he went along. All this was just about what Ish had

expected, and only when he had looked more closely did a sudden feeling of

coldness seem to begin at his stomach and then flow out until it came clear

to the ends of his fingers and toes. His right hand had gripped harder,

vise-like, on the hammer-handle.

Close to the center of the group, right beside Charlie, Evie was sitting,

the half-witted one, and there was a look on her face that Ish had never

seen there before.

Ish was about ten paces from Charlie when he noticed. He halted. Some of

the children had seen him, but they were interested in the story, and no

one had paid him any attention. He stood there, as if not yet officially

present.

He paused. It seemed a long time. But he could feel his heart throbbing,

and it did not pound more than a few times.

He felt the coldness ooze away. Now he was ready for action. He was almost

happy. The problem had suddenly taken form, and even the worst problem in

definite form was better than a fog lurking in corners. You could not

combat a mere suggestion of evil.

Still, through the long period of a few more heart-beats, he stood there.

The problem had revealed itself and taken shape suddenly. That too was part

of their present way of life. In the Old Days a crisis simmered and stewed,

and you read the newspapers for weeks and months before the strike broke or

the bombs fell. When you were dealing with only a few people, a crisis came

quickly.

He looked. Evie was at the center of the group, and usually you could count

upon her being somewhere on the outskirts. Usually she paid only furtive

attention to what was happening; now she kept her face directed at

Charlie's, seeming to drink his words in, although she certainly did not

understand much of what he was saying. There was something more there than

the desire to understand his words. They were sitting close together.

Was it for this, Ish thought with bitterness, that they had cared for Evie?

Ezra had found her--dirty, groveling, and unkempt, living in filth with

merely enough intelligence to open cans to feed herself on whatever they

contained, without cooking or preparation. It would have been better, he

had often thought, if they had merely put a can of sweet ant-poison within

her reach somewhere. As it was, they had cared for her through so many

years, and she had certainly been no pleasure to them and probably no

pleasure to herself. Their caring for her had been, he thought sometimes,

merely a curious lingering of an old standard of humanitarianism.

Now he looked again at the group before him, and in Evie he noticed

something that had never been so apparent to him before. That was the

trouble of too long familiarity; just as a picture on the wall became

something you did not notice at all, so a person whom you knew for many

years tended to lose individual characteristics. Evie, he realized now, was

a fully developed woman, startlingly blond, in a special way, beautiful.

You had to forget, of course, the strangeness of her eyes, and a vacancy in

her face. And that was something which he, Ish, could never really do. But

to a man like Charlie, such matters were not important. Yes, as Ezra had

said, Charlie knew what he wanted, and what he wanted he wanted quickly.

Indeed, was there any reason why he should delay?

Ish gripped hard on the hammer-handle. He took comfort from it, but he had

become very conscious that it was not a pistol.

A sudden burst of laughter came at something which Charlie was saying.

Looking at Evie again, Ish saw that she too was laughing in a high,

uncontrolled giggle; as she laughed, Charlie reached across and pinched her

in the ribs. She screamed girlishly, high and shrill. Then as Ish drew

near, his presence all at once seemed to become official, and everyone

turned to look at him. Instantly, Ish realized that they had been waiting

for him, that the new situation had disturbed them all, and that they were

looking for some suggestion of what to do. He walked forward steadily

toward Charlie, still gripping hard with his right hand, but taking care

not to clench his left fist, in spite of his rising anger.

As Ish drew near, Charlie--nonchalantly almost--reached out with his right

arm, and put it around Evie and drew her close to him. She seemed

surprised, but yielded comfortably. Charlie looked at Ish, and Ish knew

that this was the crisis of open defiance.

Ish mutely accepted the challenge; he felt calmer now. This was no time to

let anger disturb one's thoughts. Now that there was action, he could think

more clearly.

"All of you go somewhere for a while!" he said loudly. There was no need

for finesse or excuses; they all knew something was going to happen.

"I want to talk to Charlie here alone for a few minutes. Ezra, you take

Evie over to Molly's. She needs her hair combed."

There was no argument; everybody left so readily that they must really have

been a little frightened. By having Ezra go, Ish was losing his best ally,

but to have had him stay would have been a confession of weakness before

all of the others, including Charlie.

Then the two of them were left there alone--Ish standing, as he had been

when he spoke; Charlie, still sitting. Charlie made no gesture of rising;

so Ish too sat down. He would not stand when the other sat so lazily.

Charlie was still wearing his vest, although he had no coat on and had

unbuttoned the vest so that it hung loosely from him. There were six feet

between them as they sat on the ground and looked at each other. Ish saw no

reason to beat about the bush.

"All I want to say is that you must quit this with Evie."

Charlie was equally direct.

"Who says so?"

Ish considered for words. He might say "we" but that was vague. If he could

have said "We, the people" that would have been better, but he knew that

Charlie would think it ridiculous. He did not want to pause longer, and so

he spoke. "I say so."

Charlie said nothing in return; he sat there. He picked up a few little

pebbles from the ground and idly twitched them with his left hand, throwing

them here and there. He could not have stated, any more clearly, his

disrespect.

At last Charlie spoke. "There's lots of old wise-cracks you can say when

any guy says to you 'I say so.' You know what they are; so let's skip them.

I'm reasonable, though. Why don't you tell me just why you want me to lay

off Evie? She your girl, maybe?"

Ish spoke quickly.

"This is it," he said. "It's simple enough. We're a pretty good bunch of

people here, not mental giants, any of us I guess, but still nobody too

downright stupid. We don't want a lot of little half-witted brats running

in on us, the sort of children Evie would have."

Only when he had stopped speaking, did he realize that by speaking at all

in reply to Charlie's question, he had made a mistake. Like any

intellectual, he had been happy to stop commanding and begin arguing, and

so he had admitted that his command was non-effective. Now, in spite of

himself, he felt in second place, with Charlie the leader.

"Hell!" said Charlie. "What makes you think she's been around here all this

time and not had plenty of chances to have kids with all those boys around,

if she was going to have any?"

"The boys never touched Evie," said Ish. "She was something they grew up

with; she was taboo. And besides, all the boys were married off as early as

they could be."

He was still arguing, and was perhaps at the bad end of the argument.

"So *you* say again!" Charlie's words had the confident ring of the voice

of a man feeling himself in control. "What you really ought to be glad for

is that I picked on that one around here, the only one old enough who ain't

married already. What if I'd liked one of the others, and she, me? Then you

might have a pretty mess on your hands. You better be glad I was so

agreeable."

Ish thought wildly for something to say. What more could be said? You could

not threaten with the police or say that the district attorney might be

interested. He had flung the challenge and been met head on.

No, there was nothing more to say. Ish got up, turned on his heel, and

walked off. He had a sudden quick memory in his mind of once long before,

when he had met a man just after the Great Disaster, and had turned, and

walked away with the feeling that he might be shot in the back. Yet, after

that first memory, he was not afraid, and it was the more humiliating that

he was not. He realized that Charlie would think there was no need of

shooting. He, Ish, had come off second-best.

He was in the depths of bitterness as he walked back toward his own house,

He had forgotten how deep humiliation would be. The hammer was mere weight

now, not a symbol of power. For years things had gone easily, and he had

been a leader. But after all he was not so different from the strange youth

that he now could hardly remember. The youth who had existed in the old

days before the Great Disaster; the one who was afraid to go to dances, the

one who was never quite at ease with other people, and had never been a

leader. He had changed much, he had outgrown much, but he could not outgrow

it all.

Then as he came, deep in bitterness, through the door of the old house, Em

was there waiting for him. He laid down the hammer. He took her into his

arms, or perhaps she took him into hers, he was not sure. But after that he

felt suddenly a new confidence. Sometimes she did not agree with him. They

had argued just the night before about Charlie, but in the end he knew that

he would renew his confidence from her.

They sat on the davenport, and he poured out the story. He did not wait to

hear what she thought, but he felt her sympathy flow out and enfold him. He

felt the raw edge of his humiliation healing over. She spoke at last:

"You shouldn't have done it! You should have had the boys to back you. He

might have shot you right there. You're strong at thinking and knowing

things, not in meeting a man like that."

Then it was she was began to take the next action.

"Go get Ezra and George and the boys," she said. "No, I'll send one of the

children. No one can move in on us like this, and say what he and we are

going to do!"

Yes, Ish realized, he had been wrong. There had been no need to feel again

the Great Loneliness. Small and weak though it might be, there was still

the strength of The Tribe to rally warmly about him.

George was the first to come, and after him, Ezra. Ish caught the movement

as Ezra's quick eyes shifted from George to Em and back again. "He has

something," Ish thought, "he wants to say to me alone." But Ezra made no

attempt to gain the opportunity. Instead he ended by looking at Em in a

half-embarrassed manner.

"Molly's had to lock Evie up in one of the upstairs rooms," he said. Ish

could tell what a hard matter it was for Ezra, a highly polite and

civilized person, to have to speak in public thus about the burst of

passion that had suddenly come upon a half-witted girl at a man's caresses.

"What's to keep her from jumping out the window anyway?" said Ish.

"Nothing, I guess," said Ezra.

"I could fix up some bars," said George, eagerly. "We could put something

across the window, all right."

They all laughed a little in spite of the seriousness. George was always so

happy to do a little more carpentry somewhere on the houses. But it was

obviously impossible to keep Evie locked up for the rest of her life.

Just then Jack and Roger, Ish's own sons, came in; after them, Ralph, who

was the last of that trio.

At the boys' coming, there was a little relaxing, and people began to sit

down and make themselves comfortable. In a moment, Ish knew they would all

expect him to begin to say something and he felt again that this was all

happening too rapidly. What he was actually facing was almost like the

organization of a new state. And yet, they could not sit down quietly and

start out by writing a constitution with a good old-fashioned preamble. No,

a particular and troublesome situation faced them, and they must act in the

face of it.

He put the question sharply: "What are we going to do about Evie and this

Charlie?"

There was a babble of talk, and almost immediately Ish had the chilly

feeling that of all the men, only Ezra was solidly with him. The boys, even

George, seemed to think that Charlie might bring a new force from the

outside to enliven and enrich the life of The Tribe. If he liked Evie, so

much the better. They had enough loyalty to Ish to insist that Charlie must

apologize for what had happened this morning. But it was evident also, Ish

felt, that they all considered him to have acted precipitously--he should

have talked with the rest of them before confronting Charlie.

Ish brought up the argument that they could not afford to let Evie start a

line of half-witted children. But his words made less impression than he

had thought they would. Evie had always been a part of the boys' life, and

the thought that there would be others around of the same kind made little

impression upon them. They could not think far enough ahead to conceive

that the descendants of Evie would necessarily mingle with the rest of the

group and bring the whole level down.

Then curiously enough, George's slow mind brought forth an even sounder

argument. "How do we know," he said, "that she really is half-witted

anyway? Maybe it was just all that trouble she had when she was a little

girl when everybody died and left her all alone to take care of herself.

That would put anybody crazy. Maybe she's just as bright as any of us

really, and so her children will be all right."

Though Ish could not imagine Evie's ever having normal children, still

there might be something to the argument, and he saw that it impressed the

others, except Ezra. In fact, there was almost a feeling that Charlie was a

benefactor to the community, and was going to bring Evie into it again as a

normal Part. And just then Ish noticed that Ezra was really wanting to say

something.

Ezra stood up. That was unusual of him, too, being so formal. And it was

also unusual that he seemed to be embarrassed. His florid face was even

redder than usual, and he glanced back and forth, particularly at Em, it

seemed, in an uncertain manner.

"I've got to say something more," he said. "I talked with that fellow,

Charlie, last night after we went home, quite a while. He'd been drinking a

lot, you know--talked pretty freely." He paused, and Ish noticed again his

half-embarrassed glance toward Em. "He boasted, kind of, you know." And now

Ezra glanced toward the boys, as if realizing that they, poor half-savages,

would not know really what a civilized man was discussing. "He told me

quite a bit about himself, which was what I was after."

Again he paused, and Ish could not remember Ezra ever having been like this

before. "Come on, Ezra," he said. "Tell us. This is just us."

Suddenly the bonds of Ezra's reticence broke. *"This guy, Charlie!"* he

burst out. "He's rotten inside as a ten-day fish. Diseases, Cupid's

diseases, I mean. Hell, he's got all of them there are!"

Ish saw the news visibly shake George's big body as if it had been a

jolting blow on the chest. He saw the flush spread over Em's creamy-colored

face. To the boys the news was nothing. They did not know what Ezra was

talking about.

Ezra would not even try to explain to the boys until Em had left the room,

and then he had difficulties because the whole conception of disease was

very hazy to the boys.

As Ezra tried his explanation, Ish sat feeling his thoughts run by him

fast. This was something for which neither the old life nor the new life

held precedent. He knew vaguely that lepers had been restrained by law, and

he remembered stories of leper colonies. A typhoid-fever carrier might, he

thought, be legally kept from working in a restaurant. But what use was it

to remember such precedents anyway? Now there was no law of the land.

"Let the boys go," he said suddenly to Ezra. "This is for us to talk over

and decide on." The boys, he realized suddenly, were disqualified in two

ways--they did not know the dangers of disease to a community, and they did

not know the force which any society was privileged to exert in its own

defense.

The boys filed out, in spite of their years and inches and paternity,

seeming mere children again. "Keep quiet about this," Ezra told them.

The three older men turned to each other again after the younger ones had

gone.

"Let's get Em back in," said Ezra. She joined them, and then there were

four.

They stood for a minute in silence as if under the actual threat of danger.

There was a feeling of death in the air, not of clean death in the open,

but of a mean and defiling death.

"Well, what about it?" said Ish, knowing that he must take the lead again.

Once the silence was broken, they discussed the situation fully. They were

agreed, first of all, that The Tribe had the right to protect itself and

must do so. They would look for no more law or precedent than the primary

one of self-defense, which could be applied to a community, as well as to a

person.

Granted the right, however, and the necessity, what could be the means?

Mere warning, "Do this or else!" they all agreed, would probably be useless

and would certainly offer no sure protection. Once the thing was done, the

punishment which they could mete out to Charlie would be mere social

vengeance, and no avail against the spread of the diseases. They had no

means of actually imprisoning Charlie, and the weight of all that

responsibility, if they should improvise a jail of bars and locks, would be

too much for a small community to enforce indefinitely. The obvious thing

was banishment. They could merely take him away from the community and tell

him to go on. He could manage to live well enough. If he returned, the

penalty would be death.

Death--they stirred uneasily even at the mention of it! Now it had been a

long time since there had been either war or execution. That their society

might have to inflict such a final penalty, the very thought was strangely

disturbing to all their minds.

"But what about it?" Em seemed to voice all their fears. "What if he sneaks

back somewhere? After all, there are only a few of us older people, and he

makes friends easily with the younger ones. What if he makes friends with

some of the boys and they protect him? And he could make friends with some

of the girls, too, not necessarily Evie."

"We might take him a long way down the road," said Ezra. "We could take him

in the jeep and drop him off fifty miles, maybe a hundred miles, away." And

then after a pause, he corrected his own judgment. "Yes, but still, he

could get back easy in a month or so--and then... well, I was just thinking,

what would keep him from hanging round with a rifle and bushwhacking one of

us. Oh, maybe the boys could run him down with the dogs afterwards, but one

of us would be good and dead anyway! I don't want to spend the rest of my

life being afraid to get within rifle-range of every clump of bushes."

"You can't punish a man for something he ain't done yet," said George

stolidly.

*"Why not!"* said Em sharply. They all turned quickly toward her, but she

was silent.

"Why... you can't... of course, you can't." George was laboriously stating

the case. "He's got to do something, and then there's... a joo-rie. It says

so... the *law*."

*"What law?"*

There was a pause, and then the talk shifted away, as if no one quite had

the courage to follow Em.

Ish, feeling that he must be fair, brought up another matter.

"Of course we don't know he really has any diseases at all. We've no doctor

to find out. Maybe he had something a long time ago. Maybe he's just

boasting. Some men would!"

"That's just it!" said Ezra. "Not having a doctor, we don't know. Yes, he

might be just boasting. Do we want to take a chance? If this thing ever

gets started.... Besides, I think the guy is sick. He moves slow, like

something was wearing on him."

"They say sulfa pills work," said Ish, trying still to be fair, to suppress

that deep feeling of triumph.

Then, as he looked at George, he was almost appalled at the horror and

revulsion that he saw--George, the middle-class citizen, full of

superstitions against the "social diseases"; George, the deacon,

remembering that text about "the sins of the fathers." But Em was speaking:

"I asked 'What law'?" she said. "There are the laws in the old law-books

still, I guess. They don't mean much to us, now that things are different.

That old law, like George said--it waited till somebody did something, and

then it punished. But the thing was done. Can we take that responsibility

now? There are all the children."

Suddenly there seemed nothing more to say. They all sat silent, each

considering possibilities.

"No," Ish found himself thinking, she does not have a philosophy. She

mentions the children and makes it a special case, Yet there is perhaps

something deeper even than a philosophy in her. She is the mother; she

thinks close to all the basic things of life."

Probably it was not so much a long time that passed as what seemed a long

time. Then Ezra spoke.

"While we sit here, even--things happen fast these days! We'd better do

something." And then he added, more as if thinking aloud, "I saw, in those

days--yes, I saw lots of good ones die. Yes, a lot of good ones have died. I

almost got used to death ... no, never quite."

"Should we take a vote?" asked Ish.

"What on?" said George.

Again there was a pause.

"We can run him out," said Ezra, "or ... the other. We can't imprison him,

and what else is there?"

Then Em faced the issue squarely.

"We can vote Banishment, or we can vote Death."

There was plenty of paper in the living-room desk. The children enjoyed

drawing pictures on it. After a little hunting around, Em located four

pencils. Ish tore a sheet of paper into four small ballots, kept one

himself, and gave one to each of the others. With four people to vote,

there might, of course, be a tie.

Ish took his own slip of paper, and wrote a big B on it, and then paused.

*This we do, not hastily; this we do, not in passion; this we do, without

hatred.*

*This is not the battle, when a man strikes fiercely and fear drives him

on. This is not the hot quarrel when two strive for place or the love of a

woman.*

*Knot the rope; whet the ax; pour the poison; pile the faggots.*

*This is the one who killed his fellow unprovoked; this is the one who

stole the child away; this is the one who spat upon the image of our God;

this is the one who leagued himself with the Devil to be a witch; this is

the one who corrupted our youth; this is the one who told the enemy of our

secret places.*

*We are afraid, but we do not talk of fear. We have many deep thoughts and

doubts, but we do not speak them. We say, "Justice"; we say, "The Law"; we

say, "We, the people"; we say, "The State." *

Still Ish sat with his pencil poised above the B on his slip of paper. He

knew, far within the deeper reaches of his thought, that Charlie's

banishment would, in all likelihood, not solve the situation. Charlie would

be back; he was a strong and dangerous man, and could exert much influence

upon the younger people. "What's the matter?" Ish was thinking. "Am I still

just worrying about the leadership? Am I worrying that Charlie will replace

me?" He could not be sure. Yet, at the same time, he knew that The Tribe

faced here something real and dangerous and even dreadful, in the long run

threatening its very existence. In that final realization he knew that he

could write only the one word there, out of love and responsibility for his

children and grandchildren. He scratched out the B and wrote the other

word. Its five letters stared back vacantly at him, and then for a moment

he had a sudden revulsion of feeling. Was this ever right? By writing that

word, was he not bringing back into the world all the beginnings of war and

tyranny, of the oppression of the individual by the mass, in themselves

diseases worse than any which Charlie could carry. And why did it all have

to move so fast?

He started to scratch the word out, but stopped again. No, he was torn two

ways, but he could not quite scratch it. If Charlie should kill someone,

that might make it easier to inflict the final penalty, and yet that was

only the old conventional way of thinking. The eye for the eye, and the

tooth for the tooth! To execute the murderer never brought back the

murdered, and was only vengeance. To be effective, punishment should not be

retribution so much as a prevention.

How long had he paused? He suddenly came to the realization that he was

sitting there silent, staring at the paper, while the other three were

waiting for him. After all, his was only one vote; the others could

out-vote him, and so he could have his conscience to himself and still

Charlie would only be banished. "Give me your slips," he said.

They passed them in, and he laid them face up before him on the desk. Four

times he looked, and he read: "Death ... death ... death ... death."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 8*

They shoveled the dirt back into the grave beneath the oak tree. They

dragged branches and carried heavy stones to cover it, so that what lay

beneath would be safe from burrowing coyotes. After that, they all walked

back, the long mile.

They kept close together, as if needing one another's support. Ish walked

among them, swinging his hammer in his tight hand. He had had no use for

the hammer, but still he had taken it along. Now the downward pull of its

weight seemed to keep him firmly on the ground. He had held it in his hand,

like a badge of office, when they had gone to find Charlie and, flanked by

the boys' leveled rifles, Ish had said the words and heard Charlie begin to

curse obscenely.

Now it would never be the same again. Ish did not like to think of what had

happened, and when he did think of it, he felt a little sick, physically.

Perhaps, if it had not been for George's solidity, they could never have

gone through with it finally. George, with his practical skill, had knotted

the rope and set up the ladder.

No, he would never like to think of it in the future, either. He was sure

of that also. This was an end, and this was also a beginning. It was the

end of those twenty-one years when they had lived, now he thought, in a

kind of idyllic state, as it might have been in some old Garden of Eden.

They had known their troubles; they had even known death. But it had been

simple, as he looked back toward it. This was an end; Yet, it was also a

beginning, and a long road lay ahead. In the past, there had been only a

little group of people, scarcely more than an overgrown family. In the

future, there would be the State,

Yet there was an irony. The State--it should be a kind of nourishing mother,

protecting the individuals in their weakness, permitting a fuller life. And

now the first act of the State, its originating function, had been to bring

death. Well, who could say? Likely enough, in the dim past reaches of time,

the State had always sprung from the need to crystallize power in some

troublous time, and primitive power must often have expressed itself in

death.

"It was necessary.... It was necessary," he kept saying to himself. Yes, he

could justify the act on the highest of all grounds--the safety and

happiness of The Tribe. By the one sharp act, evil and ugly though it

seemed, he and the others had prevented--so at least they would hope--all

that chain of ugliness and evil which ran on, once started, through the

years. Now--so at least they would hope--there would be no endless succession

of blind babies, and of trembling, witless old men, and of marriages

defiled even in their consummation.

Yet he did not like to think about it. He could justify it rationally. Even

though the facts were not wholly proved, the chance had been too great to

take.

But he would never be sure how much other motives, secondary and personal,

had swayed him. Guiltily he remembered how his heart had leaped when Ezra's

words had given support to his own dislike and fear, and to his

apprehension that his leadership was chaflenged. Well, he would never know.

Now, in any case, it was finished. No, he would only say, "It is done." Too

often, he remembered his history, executions had finished nothing, and dead

men had risen from their graves, and their souls had marched on. But

Charlie had not seemed to have much of a soul.

He walked with the others. They were all silent, except that the three boys

were beginning to recover their spirits and chaff back and forth at one

another. There was no reason why they should be less concerned than the

older men. The boys had not voted originally, but they had concurred.

"Yes," Ish thought, "if anyone is guilty, we are all guilty together, and

in time to come no one can raise a word against any other one."

Along the littered and grass-grown streets, between the rows of half-ruined

houses, there was never a longer mile than that one back from the new grave

beneath the oak tree to the houses on San Lupo Drive.

When he went into his own house, Ish went to the mantelpiece, and set the

hammer there, head down, handle sticking stiffly upward. Yes, it vvas an

old friend, but his thought of the twenty-two years altered a little when

he remembered the day when he had first used the hammer. Those

years-perhaps they had been lived, as he had thought a little while ago, in

a kind of Garden of Eden! Yet, also, they had been the years of anarchy,

when there was no strong force to protect the individual against whatever

might rise up against him. He remembered that day vividly still--the one

when he had first come driving down from the mountains and had stood in the

street of the little town of Hutsonville, pausing for a moment, hesitant,

looking up and down the street, realizing that he was about to do something

illegal and irrevocable and terrible. Then, he still remembered the

feeling, he had drawn back deliberately with the hammer and smashed the

flimsy door of the little pool-room and gone inside to read the newspaper.

Oh, yes--when you had had the United States of America around and about you,

as all-present as the air you breathed, then you had thought little of it

except to complain about income-tax and regulations, and you felt yourself

the strong individual. But when it had vanished! How was it the old line

had gone?--"His hand shall be against every man's and every man's hand

against him." So it had been. Even though he had George and Ezra, they had

all acted only from day to day; no battle-tested symbol of unity had bound

them. Though things had worked comfortably and pleasantly in all these

years, that might only have been good luck.

Now from across the street he heard the sound of a saw, and he realized

that George was back at work with his beloved wood. George would not spend

much time thinking about what had happened. Neither would Ezra, or the

boys. Of them all, only he, Ish, thought much. And now, since he could not

help it, he thought back again. Again he wondered, as so often before, what

really were springs of action. Did it come from the man inside? Or from the

world, the outside? Take all this that had just happened. The water had

failed, and then they had sent the boys on their expedition as the result

of losing the water, and from the expedition had come Charlie, and from

Charlie, who was part of the outside, had come all that had happened

afterwards. Yet he could not say, either, that this was all an inevitable

succession of happenings from the initial failure of the water. His own

mind had worked creatively, throwing out the suggestion for the expedition,

seeing imaginatively what might be done. And then again he thought of Joey,

that other one who saw what was not there, who looked to the future.

Em came in. She had not been at the oak tree; that was not woman's work.

But she too had written the word upon the ballot. Yet Em, he realized,

would not consider too much or worry. She was a person too unified in

nature.

She spoke: "Don't think about it now. Don't worry about it. "

He took her hand in his, and pressed it against his cheek. For a moment it

was cool, and then he felt it warm to the flush of his own skin. Many years

it was now since he had first seen her standing in the light of the

doorway, and heard her speak, not a challenge or a question, but in quiet

affirmation. Twenty-one, twenty-*two,* years--and now he knew that no matter

what happened there would be no question in the final relationship between

the two of them. They would have no more children; yet that relationship

still was warm. She was ten years older than he. Some might say that she

was the mother more than the wife for him. Let it be! As things were, so

let them stand.

"I'll never keep from it!" he said at last. "From worrying, I mean. I

suppose I really get pleasure from it. But I have to try to look ahead,

peering into the mist. I guess I had picked out the right profession for

myself in the Old Times; I'd have made a good research professor. But it's

something of a bad joke, I think, that I was left as one of the survivors.

What was needed was only men like George and Ezra; they drift without

thinking much, or acting, either. Or else the new times needed men who

could act, be leaders, without too much thinking. Men, maybe--well, maybe

Charlie was really that kind. Me, I only try. I'm not one like Moses, or

Solon--or, or--Lycurgus. Those were the ones who made the laws and founded

nations. What has happened--yes, what is going to happen to us all--it would

all be different if I were different."

She pressed her cheek against his for a moment.

"Anyway," she said, "I don't want you different."

Well, that was what a wife should say! It was trite, but it was comforting.

"Besides," she went on, "how do you know? Even if you were Moses, or--one of

those others with the funny names--still you couldn't control what the world

does, all of it, pressing in around us."

One of the children called,and Em went away. Ish rose, and went to the

desk, and from one of the drawers he drew out the little cardboard box

which the boys had brought back with them from the tiny community near the

Rio Grande. Ish knew what was in it, but because of all that had been

happening with such incredible speed he had not yet had the time, or the

peace of mind, to examine it.

He opened the little box, and put his fingers down among the cool and

smooth kernels. He squeezed some of them in his palm, took a handful out,

and looked at them. They were red and black, small, pointed at the ends--not

the large flat kernels, yellow or white, that he had expected to see. Yet

this was what he *should* have expected. The large kernels were from a

highly developed, perhaps even artificially hybridized, variety of corn.

The little black and red ones were more primitive, what the Pueblo Indians

had always raised.

He took the box back to his chair. Again he put his hand into it; he picked

up more of the black and red kernels, and let them run into the box again

through his fingers. He played with them, and as he played, merciful

forgetfulness moved in upon him, and there was a new peace in his heart.

This also had come from the expedition eastwards. In the corn was life, and

the future.

Looking up, he saw Joey-ever the curious one-gazing at him from across the

room with interest. He felt himself warm toward Joey, and called to him to

come and see. Joey was interested, as always. Ish explained to him about

the com. During the passage of the years their own community had delayed so

long in trying to raise com that in the end he had not been able to find

any still living seed. Now there was another chance.

Then, even though it seemed a terrible thing to do, Ish took the little

box, and went out into the kitchen with Joey. They lighted a burner in the

gasoline stove, and took a frying-pan. Carefully, allowing themselves only

two dozen kernels, they poured some corn into the frying-pan, and parched

the kernels over the flame.

Even though they thus wasted some of the seeds, Ish felt too Much moved

emotionally to resist the temptation, and he justified himself by thinking

that the actual demonstration to Joey, immediately, was necessary.

The corn did not parch well, and was barely edible. Neither of them cared

for it much. Actually Ish could only remember having eaten parched corn as

a sophisticated cocktail-relish, but he explained to Joey that parched corn

had been a regular food on the American frontier and that his ancestors

must often have depended largely upon it.

The big eyes, bright in the thin little face, showed that Joey appreciated

the story.

"I wish," thought Ish, "that he might grow stronger, and be something

firmer to count on. Well, I have wasted two dozen of them, but perhaps in

Joey's mind I have planted a more important seed."

*Wheat and corn--they too, like dog and horse, marched and shared with man,

friends and helpers on the long way...*

*Far in some dry corner of the Old World the little spiked grass sprouted

more thickly around the edges of the campsites where the disturbing and

enrichment of the soil gave it ground to its liking. So first, perhaps, it

adopted man, but soon man adopted it. The more it repaid his care, the more

he coddled it. With his fostering it grew taller and stronger, yielding

more seed; but also it came to demand the tilled soil and the seedbed free

of the competition of the wilder grasses.*

*The first Year after there were no more plowed fields, the volunteer wheat

sprang up on thousands of acres, but soon there was less of it and then

still less. Like wolves upon the sheep, the fierce native grasses returned.

They formed tough sod; year after year, they grew from the same roots,

thriving the better for lack of cultivation.*

*After a while there was no more wheat, except that far off in the dry

lands of Asia and Africa, here and there, the little spiked grass still was

growing, as it had grown before an incident called Agriculture.... So also

with the maize. From the tropics of America, it too journeyed far with man.

Like the sheep it traded its freedom for a fat and pampered life. It could

no longer even shed its own seeds, held tight within the tough husk. Even

sooner than the wheat, the maize vanished. Only, on the Mexican High lands,

in thick clumps the wild teosinte still pushed up tasseled tops against the

high sun....*

*So it will go, unless here and there a few men still linger. For if man

cannot prosper without the wheat and the corn, still less can they prosper

without man. *

Although George and Maurine kept track of the months and the days of the

months (or thought they did), all the rest went more by the position of the

sun and the state of the vegetation. Ish took pride in being able to

estimate the time of the year, and when he compared notes with George's

calendar, he was generally pleased to see that he was not more than a week

or so wrong--if indeed he might not be right and George wrong, for Ish had

no strong faith in George's accuracy.

In any case, a week or two made no difference when it came to planting the

corn. Obviously the season was too far advanced. The cold weather would

arrive before the corn was more than well sprouted. Next year they would

try it.

In the next few days, however, Ish spent some time scouting about in the

vicinity, trying to locate a good spot for the compatch. He took Joey along

with him, and the two were soon talking learnedly about exposures, soil,

and possibilities for keeping the wild cattle out. Actually, Ish realized,

their particular region was about the worst place in the United States for

com-growing. A variety which was adapted to the dry and hot Rio Grande

valley might not even mature at all in the chilly and fog-blanketed summers

near San Francisco Bay. Moreover, he himself was not a farmer, and had

never even had a green thumb for gardening. His knowledge of plants and

soils was mostly theoretical, gained from his studies in geography. He

remembered how podzols and chernozems were formed and he thought he might

even recognize them when he saw them, but that did not make him a farmer.

No one else in The Tribe had been one either, although Maurine had grown up

on a farm. This accident, so you might call it, that they had no one who

was close to the soil, had already been of much importance in determining

their communal outlook on life.

One day--more than a week had passed, and the memory of Charlie and the oak

tree had faded somewhat--Ish and Joey came back to the house after having

located what seemed the most favorable site they had yet seen. Em came out

on the porch to meet them, and Ish knew immediately that something had

happened. "What's the matter?" he asked quickly.

"Oh, nothing much," she said, "I hope anyway. Bob seems to be sick, a

little." Ish stopped dead on the porch, and looked at her.

"No, I don't think so," she said. "I'm no doctor, but I don't think it's

anything like that. I don't even see how it *could* be. Come and take a

look at him. He says he's felt a little bad for the last few days."

During the years Ish had usually taken the responsibility of doctoring. He

had developed some skill at treating cuts and bruises and sprains, and had

once set a broken arm. But he had gained practically no experience with

disease, because there were only the two that seemed to exist in The Tribe.

"Bob hasn't just got a case of that sore throat?" he asked. "I can fix that

soon enough!"

"No," she said, as he had known she would--she would not be so obviously

worrying about the sore throat. "No," she repeated, "he hasn't got a sore

throat at all. He just seems laid out, flat."

"Sulfa will probably do the job anyway," said Ish, cheerfully. "As long as

there are thousands of pills in the drug stores, and still good, we're

lucky! And if sulfa won't work, I'll take a chance with penicillin."

He went upstairs quickly. Bob was lying in bed, lying very still with his

face turned away from the light.

"Oh, I'm *all right*!" he said, irritably. "Mother gets excited!"

Proof enough to the contrary, thought Ish, lay in his taking to bed. A

sixteen-year-old did not go to bed, before he was too sick to stand.

Ish looked around and saw Joey, peering curiously at his brother.

"Joey, get out of here!" he snapped.

"I'd like to see. I want to know about being sick!"

"No, you keep your nose out of *this.* When you get bigger and stronger,

I'll show you, and teach you. But we don't want you getting sick too. The

first thing to learn about sickness is that it may go from one person to

another."

Joey backed out reluctantly, his curiosity stronger than any theoretical

fear of being sick. The Tribe had had so little experience with disease

that the children had no respect for it.

Bob complained of a headache, and a general sense of unlocalized

discomfort. He kept very still in bed, obviously prostrated. Ish took his

temperature and found it just under 101, not too good or too bad. He

prescribed two sulfa pills and a full glass of water. Bob gagged over the

pills; he was not used to swallowing such things.

Telling Bob to get some sleep, Ish went out, and closed the door.

"What is it?" Em asked him.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing that sulfa won't cure, I guess."

"I don't like it, though. So soon..."

"Yes. There's such a thing, however, as coincidence, you remember."

"I know *that.* But you're the one that will be worrying."

"I'll give the pills every four hours, overnight at least, before I begin."

"That's fine, if it's so!" she said as a last word, and went off.

And Ish, before even he had got all the way downstairs, knew that her

skepticism was justified. After all, why should a man not worry? In the Old

Times when you lived with all the protection of doctors and public-health

services, even then the mysterious and sudden onset of disease was

terrifying. How much more so, now!

Now, just as man lacked the all-embracing power of a nation around him, so

also he felt himself bare and exposed and helpless for lack of that age-old

tradition of medical skill.

"It's my fault!" he thought. "All these years of grace! I should have been

studying the medical books. I should have made myself into a doctor."

Yet the study of medicine had never appealed to him, even far back in the

Old Times when he had been thinking about a profession. And a man couldn't

be a universal genius! Besides, there had been no pressure, when nearlv all

the diseases seemed to have died out.

That fact, when he thought of it, sometimes even made the Great Disaster

seem beneficent--a magnificent wiping off of the state which allowed man as

a species to escape from most Of the aches and pains he had been

accumulating for so many centuries, and start anew. Originally each little

isolated tribe must have developed and maintained its own special

infections. If the evidence had been available, the anthropologists would

probably have said that the Neanderthal men could be identified as well by

their own special parasites as by their own special ways of chipping flint.

In archeology, when you found one culture just on top of another one, you

assumed that Tribe B had wiped out Tribe A. So doubtless it had. But its

weapons had probably been stronger parasites more often than longer spears.

As he thought, he grew more alarmed. Although less than half an hour had

passed, he went upstairs, and looked in at Bob. Evening had come, and Bob

lay quietly in the half-dark room. Ish did not want to disturb him, and so

went downstairs again.

He sat in a big chair and smoked. He would have liked to talk the matter

over with someone, but Em did not have the background, and Joey was still

too inexperienced. So he thought to himself.

The Tribe--they themselves, that is--had preserved measles and some kind of

sore throat. Someone, he himself perhaps, had been the carrier, or else the

germs were maintained by some animal with which they were in contact-the

dogs, or the cattle, or any one of a hundred smaller ones. But the people

in Los Angeles might be free of measles, and have preserved mumps and

whooping-cough. And those on the Rio Grande would probably have kept

dysentery.

And now Charlie! Even if he had not had those particular diseases of which

he boasted, he might well have been a carrier of whatever happened to be

prevalent around Los Angeles. That had not been such a fine idea--sending

the boys off to explore! Suddenly Ish began to feel an unreasoning fear of

any stranger. Give them two-hundred-yards law, that was the idea, and then

look at them over the sights of a good rifle!

A fly buzzed in front of his nose, and the overemphatic way he struck at it

showed that his nerves were tense. Josey called for him to come in to

dinner.

*Unlike the human lice, the house-fly--not having irrevocably linked its

destiny with man's--had suffered nothing that approached annihilation. Like

the house rat, the house mouse, the human flea, and the cockroach, this

other intimate household companion had suffered only a considerable

reverse. Where formerly it had buzzed by hundreds and thousands, now it was

reduced to its twenties or tens. Nevertheless, it survived.*

*For, like that lord whom Price Hamlet calls a "water-fly," the house-fly

also was secure in "the possession of dirt," though for it* dirt *must

mean, not lands and estates, but the word in its dysphemistic sense, as

when the Bible of King James declares primly that Ehud struck King Eglon in

the belly, "and the dirt came out." Thus, even though man should be reduced

to the vanishing point or disappear altogether, the house-fly was secure as

long as the larger animals still lived and continued to leave droppings

behind them. The eggs of the fly, thus deposited, soon hatched out, and the

larvae found themselves embowered in rich and succulent food on which to

feast, as snakes upon rats, woodpeckers upon grubs, and men on the flesh of

dead animals.*

*Still, with man eclipsed, times were hard. No longer did barnyards offer

sites as rich as the ancient gift of the Nile, no longer was the

countryside studded with beneficently unscreened privies, no longer did

innumerable slums offer their choice piles of garbage and filth. Only here

and there some few accumulations of nourishing excrement permitted the

house-fly to lay numerous eggs and breed up well-fostered larvae and send

forth vigorous and busily traveling adults. *

A week later the epidemic was in full course. Dick, Bob's companion on the

expedition, had been the next to go down. But now Ezra and five of the

children lay stricken. In proportion to its numbers, the community was in

the grip of a devastating outbreak of what must be--Ish felt certain--typhoid

fever.

Some of the adults had been inoculated in the Old Times, but their immunity

must long since have lapsed. All the children were totally unguarded. Even

with all the old-time medical skill typhoid had been combatted chiefly by

prevention. Once the disease was established, there was no remedy but to

let it run its long and sinister course.

Easy enough now, thought Ish, to do some second thinking! Easy enough, he

thought bitterly, to know that Charlie, no matter what other diseases he

might have had or thought he had, was really carrying the germs from an

attack of typhoid fever! Perhaps he had been sick years before; perhaps he

had been sick recently, for quite possibly the disease had made the passage

in the area where he had lived. They would never know. And now, what did it

matter?

What they knew for certain was that Charlie, obviously unclean in personal

habits, had eaten with the two boys for more than a week. In addition, the

not too carefully constructed outhouses and the flies offered an obvious

route of general infection.

They began to boil all drinking-water. They burned the old latrines and

filled the old pits. They kept the new ones so well sprayed with DDT that

no fly could alight and live. All such Precautions were obviously too late.

Already every individual must have been exposed to infection. Those who had

not yet succumbed must either by good luck possess natural immunity, or

else the disease was still lying dormant in them, building up strength

through its period of incubation.

Day by day, one or more took to bed. Bob, now in his second week, lay

tossing in delirium, a grim indication of the long road all the others must

follow before they could grow better. Already those still on their feet

were being worn down by the strain of nursing.

They had scarcely time to give any thought to fear, and yet fear lay all

around them, daily drawing its circle closer. There had been no deaths as

yet, but neither had anyone passed the crisis of the fever. As in earlier

years each birth had seemed to force back the circle of darkness, so now

with each newly stricken one the darkness moved a step inward, bringing

annihilation with it. Even if they did not all die in the epidemic, the

loss of any large number might break, it seemed, the communal will to live.

George and Maurine and Molly had taken to prayer, and some of the younger

ones had joined with them. They were afraid that God was exacting

retribution upon them for the death of Charlie. Ralph was just on the point

of taking his family, as yet not stricken, and fleeing off somewhere. Ish

dissuaded him, for the moment at least, arguing that any of them might

already be infected and that to be taken sick as a small and isolated group

would be much more dangerous than to share with the whole community.

"We are close to panic!" thought Ish. and then the next morning he himself

awoke--depressed, feverish, and half-prostrated. He forced himself to his

feet, made light of Em's inquiries, and avoided her glances. Bob was very

bad, and took most of Em's time. Ish tended Joey and Josey, who were both

in the early stages. Walt, they had sent off to help in one of the other

houses.

In the afternoon, leaning over Joey's bed, Ish felt himself collapsing.

With his last effort he managed to get to his own bed, and fall upon it.

Hours later, it seemed, he came to himself. Em was looking down at him. She

had managed to undress him and get him into bed.

He looked up at her, feeling small. He gazed as a child might have

gazed--above all, fearing that he would see fear. If she was afraid, all was

lost!

But in her face he saw no fear.

The dark, wide-set eyes looked calnily at him. Oh, Mother of Nations! And

then he slept.

In his days and nights of delirium, he knew little of what happened.

Through his fever the great vague dream-shapes moved in and pressed upon

him from the dark outside--horrible, inchoate as fog, not to be combatted.

Then sometimes he called out for someone to bring him his hammer, and he

called the name of Joey sometimes, and again (worst of all) the name of

Charlie. But also in his terrors he called sometimes on the name of Em, and

then it might be that he awoke at the pressure of her hand and looked up.

Always he looked for fear, but there was no fear.

Then there was a week when he lay quieter but so prostrated that at times

his life seemed to him to be fluttering weakly to take flight and go--and he

cared little. Only, when he looked up and saw Em, he felt courage and

strength move out from her, and he held his lips hard together, for he

thought life itself pressed close behind his lips and that if he opened its

mouth it would escape like a butterfly. But as long as he looked up at Em,

he knew that he would have strength to hold that little, faintly struggling

thing within him.

Only, when she had gone, he said to himself, now that he could think a

little, "She will break! Some time she must break! She may not get the

fever. We may hope for that good luck! But she cannot carry the burden for

all of us."

Now he realized more of what was happening. There had been deaths, he knew,

but not who or how many. He dared not ask.

Once he heard Jeanie come, wailing hysterically at the death of a child, Em

said little, but strangely the spirit moved out from her, and Jeanie went

away with courage to fight on. George came, unwashed and filth-smeared, a

terror-stricken old man--Maurine had suffered a relapse, and their

grandchild lay gasping. Em said nothing about God, but again a spirit went

out from her, and George walked away with head high, and saying the words,

"Yea, though He slay me...." Thus even when the shadows drew in most

closely and the little candle seemed flickering and smoky, she knew no

despair and sustained them all.

"It is strange," thought Ish. "She has none of those things on which I used

to count so much--not education, not even high intelligence. She supplies no

ideas. Yet she has a greatness within her and the final affinnation.

Without her, in these last few weeks, we would have despaired and lost hold

of life and gone under." And he felt himself humble beside her.

At last one day he saw her sitting near him, and on her face was such great

weariness as he had never seen on a face before. He was appalled. Then

suddenly he was happy, for he knew that she would never have sat there and

let her weariness show unless the future was safe. Yet it was such a

weariness as he scarcely thought could exist. Suddenly he knew that behind

such weariness must also lie great grief.

At that moment too he realized that he himself was now on the road to

convalescence, probably less weary than she, able to share the load.

He looked at her and smiled, and even in her weariness she smiled back.

"Tell me," he said gently.

She hesitated, and he was thinking wildly. *Walt?*--no, Walt was not sick.

He brought me a glass of water today. Jack?--no, I am sure that I have heard

his voice; he was very strong. Josey would it be? Or Mary? It might be more

than one.

"Share it with me," he said to her. I am well enough now." And still he was

thinking wildly. It must not be *that one.* He was not strong, but the

weakest often endure illness the best. *No, not he!*

"Five--up and down the street--five are dead."

"Which ones?" he said, bracing himself.

"They are all children."

"What--about ours?" he said, knowing that she was sheltering him still, his

fear suddenly dominating. "Yes, five days ago," she said.

Then he saw her lips start to form the word, and he knew, even before he

heard the sounds: "Joey."

What is the good of anything? (So he thought, and he asked nothing more.)

The Chosen One! The rest might have followed; he only could carry the

light. The Child of the Promise! Then he closed his eyes, and lay still.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 9*

The weeks of his convalescence dragged along. Very slowly, his physical

strength came back to him. Yet, even behind his physical strength, his

mental vigor lagged. Looking in a mirror, he saw his hair now showing

streaks of gray. "Am I old already?" he thought. "No, not really old!" At

least he knew that in some ways he would never be the same. Some fine

youthful courage and confidence had faded.

Always he had prided himself on being able to think honestly, to face

intellectually whatever must be faced. Now he found his mind swerving off

when his thoughts drew near to certain subjects. Well, he was still weak;

after a while, he would go ahead once more.

Sometimes (and this frightened him) he found himself refusing to admit the

actuality, making plans as if Joey were still there, escaping into the

happiness of fantasy. He realized that he had always had something of this

tendency. At times it had been an advantage, as when it had enabled him to

readjust imaginatively when he had first been left alone. But now he was

escaping because the reality seemed too bleak to be faced. Repeatedly a

line of poetry, from the wide reading of all those years, came into his

head when he tried to breast reality:

Never glad confident morning again!

No, never again! Joey was gone, and Charlie's shadow lay over them, and the

all-necessary State had arisen, with death in its hands. And everything

that he had tried to do so hopefully in that glad morning had failed. He

questioned why. Then often in mere despair he fled into fantasy.

When he could think more calmly, the irony of all things impressed him more

and more. What you were preparing against--that never happened! All the

best-laid plans could not prevent the disaster against which no plans had

been laid.

Most of the time he had to be alone. Some of the others still needed care,

and what strength remained in Em had to be devoted to them. He would have

liked to talk to Ezra, but Ezra too was not yet out of bed. Except for Em

and Ezra, now that Joey was gone, there was no one to whom his heart really

went out.

One afternoon he awoke from a nap, and saw Em sitting near his bed. With

only half-opened eyes, he looked at her. She had not yet noticed that he

was awake. She was still weary-looking, but no longer with the terrible

weariness that he had seen before. There was grief too, but a calm covered

it. There was no despair. As for fear, he no longer even thought of

searching for that!

She looked at him, and noticed his opened eyes, and smiled quickly.

Suddenly he knew that this was the time when he must face it.

"I must talk with you," he said, though his voice was scarcely more than a

whisper, as if he were still asleep. Then he paused.

"Yes," she said quietly, "I am here.... Go on.... I am here. "

"I must talk with you," he repeated, still afraid really to begin. He felt

himself humble before her, the child who must ask questions of the

grown-up, the frightened child trying to drive fear away and renew

confidence. Yet, not being really a child, he feared that even she could

make no answer that would bring that security.

"I want to ask you some questions," he went on. "How is it..." he began

bravely, and then paused again.

She only smiled at him, realizing his weakness, but she did not tell him to

wait till another time.

"This is it!" he said desperately. "Is this the way of it? I know what

George is thinking, and the others perhaps too! I heard something, even

through my fever. Is it... is it a punishment?"

Then he looked at her, and for the first time in all those terrible weeks

he saw in her face something which was fear, or might be. Even I have

failed her, he thought in panic. Yet he knew that now he must go on, or

else a wall of doubt and dishonesty would arise between them forever.

So he blurted on: "You know what I mean! Is it because we killed Charlie?

Did something--did God--strike back at us? An eye for an eye, and a tooth for

a tooth! Is this why they all--why Joey?--died? Did--what it was--*He*--use the

disease that Charlie was carrying--so that we should all be sure how it was

meant?"

Then, as he paused, he saw that her face was contorted with horror.

"No, *no!"* she cried. "Not you too! I faced the others so often alone when

you were sick! I knew no arguments, but I knew that it could not be so. I

could give them no arguments. All I could give them was my courage!"

She paused, as if the sudden vehemence had exhausted her.

"Yes," she went on, "I felt courage flow out from me like blood! It flowed

out to them all, and I grew weaker as it flowed, and I wondered 'Will there

be enough? *Will there be enough?'* And you were talking of Charlie through

your fever."

She was silent again, but he could say nothing.

"Oh," she cried, "do not ask me for more courage! I do not know the

arguments. I never went to college. All I know is that we did what we

thought best. If there is a God who made us and we did wrong before His

eyes--as George says--at least we did wrong only because we were as God made

us, and I do not think that He should set traps. Oh, you should know better

than George! Let us not bring all that back into the world again--the angry

God, the mean God--the one who does not tell us the rules of the game, and

then strikes us when we break them. Let us not bring Him back! Not you

too!"

Then she stopped. and he saw that her face was between her hands, so that

he could not tell whether or not there was fear in it. But he knew that she

was crying.

And again he felt small and very humble before her. (Once more she had not

failed him.) But most of all he felt calm and peaceful and reassured. Yes,

he should have known. He, among them all, should not have doubted. Reaching

out, he took one of her hands.

"Do not be afraid," he found himself saying, though for him to be saying so

to her was ironic. "You are right; you are right! I shall not think such

things again. I know the arguments. But when there is death and a man has

been very sick, he is weak. Yes, you must remember, I am still--not quite

myself."

Then suddenly she was kissing him through warm tears, and had gone from the

room. Again, he knew, she was strong. Again courage could flow outward from

her. Oh, Mother of Nations!

He also, as he lay there still weak--he also felt courage again, whether he

had drawn it from her store or whether her words had merely caused him to

build up his own.

Yes, he thought--and did not flee from the thought--yes, Joey is gone. Joey

is *dead.* He will not be back. He will not--ever again--come running to see

what is happening. Yet, there will be a future. Though I am gray-haired

now, yet still there is Em--and the others--and I may even be happy. It will

be nothing like the future I planned--now that Joey is dead. Still, I shall

do what I can.

Again he felt small and humble. He felt all the great forces of the world

at work against him, against the only man still alive who could think and

plan for the future. He had tried to face them head-on, and they had rolled

over him. Yes, they might well have been too much, even if Joey had lived.

He must plan more shrewdly now, work more subtly, select smaller and more

practical objectives, be the fox and not the lion.

But first he must regain physical strength. Two or three weeks more, it

would take him. Even so, well before the end of the year, he would be able

to do something.

Immediately he felt his mind turn over and start to work. A good mind! He

found himself appraising his own brain, as if it were a trusty instrument

or machine--old, but still functioning smoothly.

Yet he was very weak, and before he had done much thinking, he slept again.

*Perhaps there were too many people, too many old ways of thinking, too

many books. Perhaps the ruts of thinking had grown too deep and the refuse

of the past lay too heavy around us, like piles of garbage and old clothes?

Why should not the philosopher welcome the wiping-out of it all and a new

start and men playing the game with fresh rules? There would be, perhaps,

more gain than loss.* During the weeks of the epidemic, the few who

remained well had been able to give only hasty burial to those who died.

After the convalescents were again on their feet, George and Maurine and

Molly raised the question of a funeral service.

Ish, and Em with him, would have been glad to let the situation rest as it

was. He realized, however, that the others would be happier if a service

should be performed. A service might also be of some practical value, to

mark a definite end to this period of emergency and fear and death, and

signalize a return to a normal and forward-looking life. Although he

dreaded the renewal of grief for Joey that such a service might bring him

personally, still he felt that after it he could move on toward whatever

more modest plans for the future he could finally work out.

So he made the suggestion that the services should be held and that on the

day following them all normal activities should be resumed. Although he had

not given any special thought to the resumption of school, he found that

the others naturally assumed it, and he could only acquiesce.

By common consent Ezra was placed in charge of the services. He chose to

hold them very early in the morning.

As in any community where artificial light was inadequate,

rising-with-the-sun was a habit, and they did not have to get out of bed

much earlier than usual to be standing at the little row of mounds before

the light was yet full. The sky was clear, but the western slope of the

hills was all in shade. Some tall pine trees standing by the graves did not

yet cast shadows.

The season was too late for wild flowers, but the older children, at Ezra's

direction, had cut green pine-boughs and covered the mounds. Although there

were only five graves, this loss represented a major catastrophe. In

comparison with the small numbers of The Tribe, five deaths were more than

a hundred thousand would have been in a city of a million people.

The survivors were all there--babies in their mothers' arms, little boys or

girls holding their fathers' hands.

Ish stood, feeling the weight of the hammer in his right hand. It dragged

him solidly down to the earth. He had started without it, but Josey had

reminded him, assuming that he was merely forgetful. The hammer, in the

minds of all the younger ones, marked a formal occasion. A few months ago,

Ish would not have yielded, and he would have made a point of talking to

Josey about superstition. But today he had brought the hammer. Actually, he

was forced to admit, he himself was drawing comfort from it. He was humbler

now, after all that had happened. If The Tribe needed a symbol of strength

and unity, if they were happier with the hammer as a rallying point--who was

he to enforce rationalism? Perhaps rationalism--like so much else--had only

been one of the luxuries which men could afford under civilization.

They had now all arranged themselves in an irregular halfcircle, facing the

graves, each family grouped together. From his position in the center Ish

looked first the one way and then the other. George was wearing a

conservative-looking dark-gray suit, the very one probably that he used to

wear to funerals when he had been a deacon in the Old Times--or, if not the

same one, its twin. Maurine stood beside him in solid black, with a veil.

At least while those two lived, the ancient proprieties would survive. But

all the others were clothed in the haphazard but comfortable leavings of

civilization. The men and boys wore blue jeans and sport shirts, with light

wind-breaker jackets over their shirts against the early morning chill. A

few of the smaller girls were almost indistinguishable from the boys,

except for their longer hair, but the women and most of the girls declared

their femininity with skirts, and lent color by means of red or green or

blue shawls or scarfs.

Ezra was walking forward to the center, getting ready to begin. The light

of the sun behind the hill was brighter gold now; the hush was deeper. Ish

felt his throat full. He was moved, even though he felt the ceremony to be

meaningless, and talk in the presence of death to be almost an

impertinence. Yet also he felt himself close to something very ancient in

humanity, perhaps something also very significant for the future. Suddenly

he was imagining himself an anthropologist of thousands of years in the

future, one who was investigating the life of people just subsequent to the

Great Disaster. "Little is known of their culture," he would write. "From

the discovery of certain graves, however, it is known that they practiced

inhumation."

When Ezra began to talk, Ish became a little fearful; there were many

things that might be said wrong on the occasion. But as soon as Ezra was

well started, Ish knew that he should have had more trust. Ezra had not

looked up old funeral services. He did not mouth traditional words. He did

not speak of a hope beyond the grave. Of all who stood there, only George

and Maurine, and perhaps Molly, would have found comfort in such words. You

found it hard to think of such a thing when across the tradition of the

past lay the broad black mark of the Great Disaster.

So Ezra, who knew people, talked a little of each of the children. He told

some small pleasing story of each of them, something which he remembered

and which the others might like to remember.

Last of all, he began to talk of Joey, and Ish felt himself suddenly weak.

But Ezra did not talk of any remarkable thing that Joey had done and did

not even mention that a year had been named for him. Instead, he began to

tell of some little incident of play, as with the others.

As Ezra talked of Joey, Ish saw some of the children begin to cast quick

sidelong glances at him. They knew the special bond that had connected Joey

and his father. Were they wondering whether he, Ish, would step forward at

the last moment? He, the Old One, the American, who knew all that strange

knowledge--would he step forward at the last moment, and hold his hammer

before him stiffly, and declare that Joey was not gone, that Joey still

lived, that Joey would come back to them? Would the earth of that little

mound begin to stir?

But Ish noticed only their quick glances, sidelong and furtive. They said

nothing. And whatever they thought, he knew that he could work no miracle.

When Ezra finished talking of Joey, he continued speaking more in general.

Why did he not stop? Ish felt something wrong. This service should not drag

on!

Then abruptly Ezra brought himself to a close, and at the same moment Ish

became conscious of another change. All the world was suddenly brighter.

The first edge of the sun had risen above the ridge-line!

Ish suddenly did not know whether to be pleased or dismayed. "Well

planned!" he thought. "But a stage-trick!" Then, looking around, he saw

that the others were happy. He too relaxed, and even though he recognized

the theatrical touch, he was comforted.

The return of the sun! That age-old symbol! Ezra had been too honest to

promise immortality, but he had chosen his timing, and had the luck of a

clear morning. Whether you thought of personal resurrection or merely of

the continuance of the race, the symbol was there.

Now the lanes of yellow sunlight stretched out between the long shadows of

the tall dark trees.

*In this also we are men, that we think of the dead. Once it was not so,

and when one of us died, he lay where he lay by the cave-mouth and we ran

in and out there, not standing quite upright as we ran. Now we stand

upright, and now also we think of the dead.*

*So, when the comrade lies there, we do not let him lie where he died. And

we do not take him by the legs carelessly, and drag him into the forest for

the foxes and woodrats to gnaw on. We do not cast him into the river

carelessly for the stream to float him away.*

*No, but rather we lay him where the ground is hollowed out a little and

there cover him with leaves and branches. So he shall return to the earth,

whence all things came.*

*Or else we lay him to rest among the tree-branches, and give him to the

air. Then, if the black birds come streaming from far to pluck at him, that

too is right, for they are the creatures of the air.*

*Or else we give him to the bright and hot cleanliness of fire.*

*Then we go about our life as before, and soon we forget, like the beasts.

But this at least we have done, and when we shall no longer do it, then we

shall no longer be men. *

After the ceremony at the graves was over, they all walked back to the

houses through the early sunshine. Ish began to wish that he could be

alone. He did not feel it right, however, to leave Em at this time. Before

long she must have sensed how he was feeling, and she took the initiative.

"Go on," she said. "It will be better for you to take a walk, and be by

yourself for a while."

He decided to go. As he had feared, the funeral service had stirred him

deeply. Some people sought company in time of grief, but he was one who

rather should be alone. He did not worry about Em; she was stronger than

he.

He took no lunch with him, because he did not feel hungry. In any case he

could always step into a store, and pick out some cans. He did not strap

his pistol-belt around him, though it was routine not to go far from the

houses without some kind of weapon. At the last moment, however, he

hesitated uncertainly, and then took the hammer from the mantelpiece.

The very fact that he took it troubled him a little. Why was it coming to

loom so large in his thoughts? It was by no means his oldest possession,

because scattered throughout the house were things which he had owned and

could remember even from the time of his small boyhood. But still none of

them was like the hammer. Perhaps it was because he associated it

particularly with his survival in the first days. And yet he did not

believe what the children seemed to believe about the hammer.

He walked away from the house, not caring in what direction he wandered, so

long as he could be by himself. The hammer dangling from one hand was a

nuisance. He began to feel an irritation against it. Was it really coming

to be a superstition in his mind too, as it was in the minds of the

children?

Well, why did he not simply lay the hammer down, and pick it up on his way

home? Or pick it up tomorrow? Yet, he did not lay it down.

He realized that not merely the temporary inconvenience of the hammer was

irritating him against it, but rather his feeling that it was coming to be

a fixation with him. He made a sudden resolve to be done with it. He would

not let his mind be imposed upon. As he had once before imagined himself

doing, he would walk down to the Bay, and out on the old wharf, then he

would throw the hammer violently, far out into the waves. It would sink

through them deep into the soft mud beneath, and that would be the end. He

walked on. Then the memory of Joey flooded over him again, and as he

walked, he thought no more of the hammer.

After a while he came out of his sorrow, and realized that he was actually

walking and carrying the hammer. Then he knew that he was not heading

toward the Bay, in spite of his decision. He was walking south, not west.

"It would be a long walk to the Bay, and I am still not strong," he said to

himself. "There is no use walking so far just to get rid of this old

hammer. I can throw it into any gully among the bushes, and I shall soon

forget where I threw it."

Then he knew again that his mind was trying to deceive him and that even if

he threw the hammer into a gully he would not forget where he had thrown it

and would not lose it in that way. He quit his pretense, for he knew that

he did not want to be separated from the hammer and that it had come to

mean a great deal to him in some strange way. At the same time he realized

why he was walking south and where subconsciously his mind was already

directing his feet.

He was following the broad street which led toward the University campus.

He had not been there for a long time. As he walked, his sorrow was still

with him, but in some way now it had ceased to be so overwhelming, as if

his decision about the hammer had made some change.

Now, as so often before, he looked around him, and the mere pageant of the

years seized his interest, and took his mind away from his grief. This

particular section had suffered badly in the earthquake. There was a gully

all the way across the old concrete pavement; some crack of the earthquake

had made the break; rain and running water had widened and deepened it, and

now trees and bushes were standing up from the line of the gully all the

way across the wide street. Swinging the hammer to give him momentum, he

jumped the four-foot gap from one edge of the pavement to the other, and

was pleased that his legs, in spite of his illness, were not too weak.

As he walked along, he saw the houses on both sides of the street, fallen

into ruin now, what with the earthquake and the mere passage of time. Vines

climbed high upon them. Encroaching trees had thrown porches out of line.

Everywhere he observed the struggle between the native plants which were

moving back into the gardens, and the exotics which once had been planted

there and carefully tended.

He looked closely at these overgrown gardens, thus to take his mind off

worse things. He tried to discover what plants were no longer in existence.

He saw no wisteria or camellia or coprosma though they had once been

common. But the tall climbing rose-vines were still vigorous. A large and

handsome evergreen tree he recognized as a deodar, native to the Himalayas.

It was still growing vigorously, but looking beneath it, he found no

seedlings. Apparently it could live there, but would not reproduce. On the

other hand beneath a eucalyptus tree, a species native to Australia, he

found seedlings which had sprouted up through the litter of leaves in which

nothing else would grow.

Coming to the campus, he passed first through a grove of Italian

stone-pines. Here, everything looked less confused than it had in the

gardens along the street, because the pines had spread and formed a canopy

beneath which little grass grew. The effect was still park-like.

Near one of the trees he saw a large rattlesnake lying in the sunshine. It

seemed torpid, not yet quite revived from the chill of the night. He could

easily kill it. He hesitated a moment, but went on.

No--he had once been bitten and still remembered something of that horror.

But he held no enmity to the whole tribe of rattlesnakes. In fact, that

bite had possibly saved his life. Perhaps, rather than being hostile, he

should be grateful, and form a rattlesnake clan around that totem. No, not

that either. He would be neutral.

Then he realized that this attitude of his applied to more than just

rattlesnakes. He had noticed it in the younger people also. In the times of

civilization men had really felt themselves as the masters of creation.

Everything had been good or bad in relation to man. So you killed

rattlesnakes. But now nature had become so overwhelming that any attempt at

its control was merely outside anyone's circle of thought. You lived as

part of it, not as its dominating power. To bother with killing one

rattlesnake was foolish, because you had no chance of exterritinating them

or even of appreciably changing their number. If one of them came near the

houses, you killed it of course, to protect the children. But you did not

go crusading against rattlesnakes, any more than you did against

mountain-lions.

He passed on, went down an almost overgrown stone stairway, and crossed a

wooden bridge. He felt it shaky with rot beneath his feet. It had been an

old bridge, he remembered, even when he was a boy. Along the stream the

thicket was dense, and he had to push his way through, although underfoot

he felt that he was still on an asphalt walk.

He heard a rustle somewhere in the thicket, and for a moment was nervous to

be without a weapon. It might be a mountain-lion. Wolves or wild dogs also

were likely to haunt these thickety stream-courses.

But as he burst through into the open again, he saw only some deer loping

off through the trees.

High on his left, now, rose up one of the University buildings. He could

not remember what department had been housed there. The shrubbery, which

once had been kept neatly trimmed, had now grown up high and shaggy,

masking the lower windows.

He went on toward his goal. It was only a little way ahead, now. He burst

through another thicket, and saw the great Library building.

He looked. This building also was half masked by the shrubbery. One window

was broken, apparently because the branch of a pine tree had grown out

across it, and then slapped back and forth in some high wind. That accident

had happened since he had last been here, several years back. He kept the

University Library as a reserve for the future. He had even taught the

children to respect it. Yes, he had even, he was afraid, put a kind of

taboo upon it. In fact, not only here but everywhere, he had always tried

to impress the children with an almost mystical value of books. Still he

kept the symbol of the burning of the books as one of the worst things that

men could do.

He circled the Library, here and there having difficulty in breaking his

way through bushes. Once he had to crawl over the fallen trunk of a pine

tree. The building, as far as he could see, was still in sound condition.

He came at last to the window which he had broken many years before, and

then boarded up. With the hammer he began to knock off a board. He was

careful not to break the board, so that he could replace it. After all, he

realized with pleasure, there had been a rational background for his

bringing the hammer along with him.

Having knocked off the board, he was able to climb through into the

building. Now he recalled the first time that he had gained entrance

through the window. He had come when Em had told him she was going to have

a baby, and he had been hunting for books on obstetrics. All that had

seemed a tremendous problem at the time, and yet it had solved itself

without difficulty. Why could he never learn to worry less about problems?

Problems not infrequently solved themselves.

He went on through the hall, and found the old door into the stacks. Things

were not as clean as they might be. In spite of his precautions, bats had

apparently found their way into the building, perhaps through the recently

broken window. There was also the litter of some kind of rodent. But the

droppings had done no damage to the books. He put out a finger, rubbed the

tops of some books, and brought it away dusty. That was natural, and there

was not even a very surprising amount of dust.

Yes, they were all still there--well over a million volumes, almost all the

accumulated learning of the world still safe within these four wals. He

felt a sudden sense of security and safety and hope. He gloated, like a

miser.

He went down one flight of the little circular stairway, and headed toward

the part of the library, the geography section, which as a graduate student

he had known best. He came to the familiar alcoves, and in spite of all the

years he felt a sense of having come home. Looking at the shelves, he began

to spot books which he had read and studied.

One, in particular, caught his attention, a well-worn volume, rebound in

red buckram. He stretched out a hand, took it from the shelf, and blew the

dust from its top. Looking at his find, he saw the name *Brooks* and the

title. *Climate through the Ages.* He remembered the book. Opening it, he

saw the card, and noticed that the last borrower of the book--the date only

a month before the Great Disaster--had been someone named with the unusual

name of Isherwood Williams. Only after a few seconds did he realize that he

himself was Isherwood Williams. Nobody had called him by his full name for

many years. Now he could actually remember that he had been reading this

book during his last semester. It was a good book and interesting, although

largely superseded, he curiously found himself remembering, by the later

studies of--well, someone with a German name--Zeimer, perhaps.

He laid the hammer down, so as to have both hands for the book. Then he

went to where light shone in through a dusty window, and looked curiously

through the pages. Actually, this book was not of the slightest value to

human progress. Climatic change was not a practical problem. In any case,

this book had been superseded. He could just as well throw it away or tear

it to pieces, but he did not. He went back, and put it almost reverently

into its place.

He walked away, and then suddenly everything was dust and ashes in his mind

again. What would be the use of all these books now? Why worry about one of

them? Why worry about all the millions of them? There was no one left, now,

to carry on. Books themselves, mere wood-pulp and lamp-black, were

nothing--without a mind to use them.

Sorrowfully he went away, and he was just starting to climb the circular

stairway when he realized that something was missing. He no longer had the

hammer. He was suddenly frightened, and returned rapidly to the alcove from

which he had taken the book. He had a great feeling of relief when he saw

the hammer still resting where he had laid it on the floor when he wanted

both hands for the book. He took it up and retraced his steps.

He climbed out through the broken window, and automatically started to

replace the board. Then, he stopped. The great feeling of desolation came

over him again. Why replace the board? It would make no difference. No one

was left who would come here, in the future, to read. He paused, swinging

the hammer idly.

At last, slowly, without enthusiasm, he picked up the board, and with the

hammer pounded the nails in again. There was no enthusiasm. There was no

hope. Yet this was merely part of his life. Just as George would always

work at his carpentry, just as Ezra would always be good with people, so

he, Ish, would keep some illusion of books, and the future.

After that he went around and sat down to rest on the granite steps at the

front of the Library. Everything was overgrown and half ruinous. He thought

of an old picture which he remembered. Who was it--Caesar?

Hannibal?--someone, sitting in the ruins of Carthage? He pounded idly with

his hammer at the edge of one of the granite steps. It was sheer vandalism.

He did not ordinarily do such a thing. The edge of the step chipped off.

Still, wantonly, he pounded harder. A three-inch flake loosened and fell.

The fresh edge of the broken granite looked out roughly at him.

As he sat there still pounding gently with the hammer, he felt himself for

the first time remember Joey without merely dissolving into sorrow. How

would it have been anyway? Joey might not have been able to do anything. He

was only a bright little boy. He could not have changed things. He could

not have stood against all the pressing current of this altered world. He

would only have struggled and struggled, and in the end he would not have

succeeded. He would have been unhappy.

"Joey," he thought, and he put the thoughts into words. "Joey was too much

like me. I always struggle. I can never merely be happy."

He concentrated on a small chip of granite, and vindictively pounded it

into bits.

"Relax, relax!" he again thought in words. "It's time to relax."

*Thoreau and Gauguin--we remember* them. *But should we forget the tens of

thousands of others? They neither wrote books nor painted pictures, but

equally they renounced. And what of those others, the millions who turned

their backs on imagination?*

*You have heard them speak, and seen their eyes... "It was fine there,

where we camped on our fishing-trip--sometimes I wished--of course I had to

get back for the sales-conference." ... "Do you ever think, George, of a

desert island?" ... "Just a cabin, in the woods, no telephone." ... "The

sand-spit by the lagoon, I like to fancy--but, you know, there's Maud, and

the children."*

*What a strange thing then is this great civilization, that no sooner have

men attained it than they seek to flee from it!*

*The Chaldeans told that Oannes the fish-god came up from the sea and

taught men these new ways. But was he god or demon?*

*Why do the legends look back toward some golden day of simplicity?*

*Must we not think then that this great civilization grew up, not by men's

desires, but rather by Forces and Pressures. Step by step, as villages grew

larger, men must give up the free wandering life of berry-picking and

seed-gathering and tie themselves to the security (and drudgery) of

agriculture. Step by step, as villages grew more numerous, men must

renounce the excitement of the hunt for the security (and drudgery) of

cattle-keeping.*

*Then at last it was like Frankenstein's vast monster. They had not willed

it, but it ruled them all. And so by a thousand little surreptitious paths

they tried to escape.*

*How then, once overthrown, shall this great civilization, except by

renewed Forces and Pressures, ever come again? *

And then suddenly he knew that he was old. In years he was only in his

forties, but he was the youngest of the older group, and beneath him a long

gap opened before you came to the oldest of the younger ones. It was a long

gap in Years, and an immensely longer gap in culture and tradition. Never

had there been--never could there possibly have been--such another gap

between the older and the younger generations.

Sitting there, on the Library steps, pounding the chip of granite into

smaller and smaller grains, he began now to have what seemed a little

clearer vision of the future. It was all tied up in that same old question.

How much did man strike outward to affect all his surroundings and how much

did the surroundings press in upon him? Did the Napoleonic age produce

Napoleon or did *he* produce *it*? So, even if Joey had lived, the welter

of circumstances, the circumstances that made Jack and Roger and Ralph,

would probably have affected Joey too, and one small boy was not much to

set up against all of that. Yes, even if Joey had lived, things would

probably have continued to move in the way they already seemed to be

moving. Now that Joey was dead, it was certain--certain, that is, as far as

anyone could reasonably expect, granting always some unforeseeable

accident.

*The stars in their courses!* (The chip of granite was nothing but powder

under the blows of the harnmer.) *The stars in their courses!* No, he did

not believe in astrology, and yet the shifting of the stars showed that the

solar system too was changing, and that the earth itself was becoming a

more or a less habitable place for man. Thus, at some profounder depth of

reality, astrology might be right, and the changes in the sky could be

taken as symbol of all the grinding wheels of circumstance. *The stars in

their courses!* What was man, little man, to withstand them?

Yes, the future was certain. The Tribe was not going to restore

civilization. It did not want civilization. For a while the scavenging

would go on--this opening of cans, this expending of cartridges and matches

stored up from the past, all this uncreative but happy manner of life. Then

at last, sooner or later, there would be more and more people, and the

supplies would fail. There would perhaps be no quick catastrophe because

many cattle could be had for the taking, and life would go on. So, he

thought, and then a new idea came to him with a sudden impact. Even though

cattle were left, though there was much food, what would happen when the

ammunition for the rifles was exhasted? When the matches were gone? In

fact, one might not even have to wait until the ammunition was exhausted.

Powder deteriorated with time. Three or four generations, and all who were

left might be merely some groveling primitives who had lost civilization

and yet, on the other hand, had not learned all those thousand basic skills

which enabled savages to live with some degree of stability and comfort!

Possibly, indeed--and perhaps this would best--in three or four generations

the race would not be able to survive at all, would not be able to make the

transition between the scavenging, uncreative life, and some new level of

life at which they could remain permanently, or from which they could once

more begin a slow advance.

Again he pounded heavily on the edge of the step. Another chunk of the

granite fell off. He looked at it gloomily. He had just decided not to

worry, and here he was, hard at it again. What could he know about what

would be happening three or four generations from now? He got up and

started to walk home. He was quieter now.

"Yes," he thought, again shaping words, "a leopard can't change its spots,

and I'll always be a worrier, even though I've lived with Em for twenty-two

years. I look before and after. Relax! Yes, I should relax a little. What I

have been trying to do--that has failed. I'll admit it. Just the same, I'm

certain I'll never stop trying a little. Now, perhaps, if I try for

something less, I may in the end attain something more."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 10*

By the time he had finished the long walk up the hill to the houses, his

vague plans had shaped themselves, but he would have to wait until morning

to begin.

That night, however, an autumn storm began, and he awoke in the morning to

a world of low-lying cloud and steady dropping. He felt surprise, for with

all the recent troubles he had failed to realize that time was slipping

away. Now, however, when he thought of the matter, he remembered that the

sun had been setting well toward the south and that the month, if one could

still think in such terms, would be November. The rain interfered with the

immediate fulfillment of his plans, but there was plenty of time, and he

could mature his ideas with thought.

So completely had his attitudes changed within the last day that the sounds

of the assembling children, that morning, came to him as a shock. "Of

course!" he thought. "They are expecting to have school again."

He went downstairs to meet with them. They were all there--all except Joey,

and two younger ones. He looked into their faces, as they sat on chairs

wriggling, or squatted more comfortably on the floor. They were looking

back at him, he imagined, with more alertness than usual. Joey was gone,

and they must be wondering how this would affect school. Yet the change, he

knew, must be only temporary, and behind this alertness must lurk still

that basic lack of interest against which he had already struggled.

He let his glance run over the little group, pausing individually upon each

face. They were fine children, not really stupid, but they lacked the

flair. No, there was not one! He made his decision, and he felt no pain in

it.

"School is dismissed," he said.

There was a momentary look almost as of consternation in all the faces, and

then he saw that they were suddenly pleased, although they were making some

effort not to show their pleasure.

"School is dismissed!" he repeated, feeling that he was being dramatic

about it in spite of himself. "There will be no more school--ever!"

Again he saw a look of consternation come into the faces, and this time no

pleasure showed afterwards. They stirred uneasily in their seats. Some of

them got up to go. But they knew that something had happened, something

deeper than their minds could grasp.

They went out slowly and quietly. During as much as a minute after they had

gone out into the dripping of the rain, there was silence. Then he heard

them suddenly shout, and they were children again. School had been a

passing incident. Probably they would never think of it again; certainly

they would never regret it. For a moment Ish felt a heaviness within him.

"Joey, Joey!" he thought. But he had no regret for what he had just done,

and he knew that he had made the right decision. "School is dismissed!" he

thought. "School dismissed!" And he remembered suddenly that he had sat in

this same room many years before, and watched the electric lights fade out.

Three days of rain gave him plenty of time to think things over and mature

all his plans. At last a morning dawned with blue sky and a chilly wind

from the north. The sun came out, the vegetation dried. Now was the time.

He hunted through the deserted and overgrown gardens. This had never been

an area where citrus fruits were grown commercially, but lemons had

produced well enough, and here and there someone had nursed a lemon tree in

his garden. That wood, he remembered, was suitable. Of course he could have

read any number of books, but his approach had changed. He would read no

books on this matter. He could do well enough by himself.

Two blocks up the street there had once been a large and showy garden.

There he found a lemon tree. It was still living, although nearly crowded

out by the growth of two pines -Moreover, it had suffered badly in a frost

of some years previous. Never having been pruned after the frost, the tree

was only a wreck of itself. Long suckers had shot up from its base after

the frost, and some of these again had died.

Avoiding the long thorns, Ish pressed his way into the tangle, found a

suitable shoot, and took out his pocket-knife. The shoot at its base was

nearly as big as his thumb. The dead lemon wood was almost as hard as bone,

but after a while he whittled it through with his knife and pulled it out

from the tangle. The shoot was seven feet long, straight for four feet

before other branches had begun to interfere and it had grown crooked. At

his shaking, it was stiff, but when he leaned against it, it bent and

straightened sharply as he released the pressure. It would suffice.

"Yes," he thought a little bitterly, "it will be good enough for all my

needs."

He carried the lemon-shoot back to the house, and sat on the porch, in the

sun, whittling. First he cut off the crooked end of the shoot so that he

had four feet of straight wood remaining.

Then he stripped off the dead bark, and began to taper the shoot at both

ends. The work was very slow, and he paused frequently to sharpen the knife

on a whetstone. The white tough-grained wood seemed to turn the edge after

ouly a few strokes.

Walt and Josey had been off playing with the other children, but at

lunch-time they came back. "What are you doing?" Josey asked him.

"I'm getting ready to play a game," Ish answered her. He would not make the

mistake, he had decided, of trying to tie this up with anything practical,

as he had with the school. Here he would try to harness that love of play

which seemed so deep-seated in the human race.

After lunch the children must have carried the word around. In the

afternoon George came over.

"Why don't you come to my place." George said, "and use a vise and my

spoke-shave? You could work a lot faster."

Ish thanked him, but continued to work with the knife, even though his hand

was getting sore. Nevertheless he thought that he would do all this work

with the simplest implements.

By the end of the afternoon his hand was beginning to blister where he held

the knife, but he judged that the work was done. A four-foot length of the

lemon-shoot was now symmetrically tapered toward both ends. He set one end

of it against the ground, pressed it to a half circle, and felt it spring

back sharply into straightness. Satisfied, he cut notches close to each

end, and gladly put the knife away.

The next morning he continued the work. There was plenty of stout string

available, and he considered taking some nylon fish line and braiding it

into the proper size.

"No," he thought, "I'll work from things they can always get for

themselves."

He found the skin of a recently killed calf. From it he cut a long thong of

rawhide. The work went slowly, but he had plenty of time. He shaved the

hair from the strip, and shaved the strip itself until it was no larger

than a small cord. Then he braided three strips together to make a heavy

cord, and estimating the proper length, he tied each end into a little

loop.

He held the lemon-shoot in one hand and the braided thong in the other, and

looked at them. Either by itself amounted to little. Then, bending the

shoot, he hooked the loops of the thong into the notches at the ends of the

shoot, and the two became one. Since the thong was shorter, the tapered

shoot now bent in a clean symmetrical arc. The thong itself cut strai-ht

across between the points of the arc. Stick and cord, joined, had suddenly

become something new.

He looked at the bow, and knew that creative force had again returned to

the world. He could have gone to any sporting-goods store, and picked out a

much better bow-a sixfoot toy for archery. But he had not done so. He had

made himself a bow from the wood itself carved with the simplest of

implements, and a string from the hide of a new-killed calf.

He plucked at the thong. It scarcely twanged, but it gave forth a

satisfactory dull throbbing vibration. He considered that his work for the

day was finished. He unstrung the bow.

The next day, for an arrow, he cut himself a straight branch of a pine

tree. The soft green wood cut easily, and he had shaped the arrow and

notched it in half an hour. When he had finished it, he called for the

children. Walt and Josey came, and Weston with them. "Let's see how she

works," Ish said.

He drew the arrow back, and loosed it. Unfeathered, it flew with a wobbly

flight, but he had pointed it at a high angle, and it covered fifty feet

before it struck, by chance, pointing upward from the ground.

Instantly he knew that he had won success. The three children had never

seen anything like this before, and they stood wide-eyed for a moment, then

with shouts they broke into a run, and went to retrieve the arrow. Ish shot

it for them, again and again.

At last came the inevitable request for which Ish had been waiting.

"Let me try it, Daddy," said Walt.

Walt's first shot wobbled a bare twenty feet, but he was pleased. Then

Josey tried it, and then Weston.

Before dinner-time, every child in The Tribe was busy at work whittling on

a bow of his own.

Everything worked even better than Ish had dared to hope. Within a week the

air around the houses seemed to be full of badly shot arrows. Mothers began

to worry about lost eyesight, and two children came in crying after having

received arrows in various parts of their anatomies. But since the arrows

were headless and shot from weak bows, no real harm resulted.

Rules had to be established. "You mustn't shoot in the direction of anyone.

You mustn't shoot close to the houses."

Competition developed. Having learned the trick from the older boys who

shot from rifles, children began to hold contests against a mark. They

experimented with different lengths and types of bows. When Josey

complained that Walt always beat her at shooting, Ish subtly made the

suggestion that she might try fixing some quail pinions to the butt-end of

her arrow. She did so, and beat Walt, and then suddenly all the arrows had

quail pinions at one end, and they were flying farther and truer. Even the

older boys became interested, and some of them made bows although they were

allowed to use rifles. But archery still continued to flourish chiefly

among the ones who were too young for rifles.

Ish bided his time. The early rains had sprouted the grass seed, and now

the land was green. At evening the sun set behind the hills to the south of

the Golden Gate.

Walt and Weston, the twelve-year-olds, were now deep in some kind of boyish

plot. They worked hard with bows and arrows, shaping and perfecting them.

They were gone long hours during the day.

Then one day toward evening Ish heard the sound of excited boys' feet

running up the steps outside. Walt and Weston burst into the room.

"Look Daddy," Walt cried, and he held up for Ish the pathetic-looking body

of a big rabbit pierced through the side with a headless wooden arrow.

"Look!" Walt cried again. "I hid behind a bush, and waited till he hopped

up close to me, and then I shot him right through."

Ish, as he looked, felt a sympathy and pity for the poor dangling body,

even though he knew that it was a symbol of his triumph. Too bad, he

thought, that even creation must make use of death also.

"That's fine!" he said. "That's fine, Walt! That was a good shot!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 10*

Day after day still, the sun set in the cloudless sky farther to the south.

Now it was very close to its turning. The clear weather still held.

One day, so suddenly that you might almost say just at that particular

moment it happened, the children became tired of playing with bows and

arrows, and went off on some new enthusiasm. Ish did not worry. He knew

that after the ways of children they would come back again, perhaps at the

same time of year. The making of bows and the shooting of arrows would not

be forgotten. During twenty years, during one hundred years if need were,

the bow might remain a children's plaything. In the end, after the

ammunition had failed, it would still be there. It was the greatest weapon

that primitive man had ever known and the most difficult to invent. If he

had saved that for the future, he had saved much. After the rifles were

useless, his great-grandchildren would not have to meet the bear's rush

empty-handed or starve in the midst of the cattle herds. His

great-grandchildren would never know civilization, but at least they would

not be groveling half-apes, but would walk erect as freemen, bow in hand.

Even if they should no longer have metal knives, they could still scrape

out bows with sharp stones.

He planned one more experiment, but he was in no hurry. Now that they had

bows he could make a bow-drill and teach the children its use. Then after

the matches were exhausted, The Tribe would still know how to kindle fire.

Yet, as with the children, his own enthusiasm too grew cool through the

passing of the weeks. He thought less upon his own triumph in inventing the

bow and tricking the children into enjoying it. He thought rather upon all

the disasters of the year. Joey was gone, and that loss could never be

redeemed.

Also a kind of fresh innocence had faded from the world when the four of

them had written that word upon their ballots. And also a great confidence

and trust had gone from himself when he had realized at last that he must

give up his dream of re-establishing the ways of civilization.

Now the sun was so near the limit of its southern course that a day or two

would bring its turning. Everyone was making ready for the holiday, and the

carving of the number in the rock and the naming of the year. This was

their great holiday of all, combining as it did, both Christmas and New

Years of the Old Times, and yet including along with those two something of

their individual own. Like so much else the holidays had suffered strange

transitions in the passage of one world to the other. They still observed

Thanksgiving Day with a big dinner, but the Fourth of July and all the

other patriotic holidays had lapsed. George, who was a traditionalist and

had been a good union man, always knocked off whatever he was doing and

wore his best clothes when he judged it should be Labor Day. But no one

else celebrated it with him. Curiously, or perhaps rather it was natural

enough, the old folk-holidays survived better than those established by

law. The children still celebrated April Fool's Day and Halloween with

great enthusiasm and with much of the traditional ceremony, although they

had had to learn such things from their fathers and mothers. Also six weeks

after the winter solstice, they talked about Ground-squirrel Day and

whether the squirrel could see his shadow, for there were no ground-hogs in

this area and they had substituted the ground-squirrel instead. Yet all

these were nothing, compared with their own great festival when they cut

the number in the rock and named the year.

Now Ish began to hear the children discussing the matter and speculating

upon what the name would be. The younger ones were saying that it should be

called the Year of the Bow and Arrow. But the slightly older ones, who

could remember more vividly the whole year, said that rather it should be

called the Year of the Journey. But those who were still older thought of

other things also, and often they grew quiet and seemed embarrassed, and

Ish knew that they were thinking of Charlie and of all the other deaths.

Ish himself thought first of all about Joey, and then of all the changes of

attitude which he himself had had to make during the year.

Then finally, as they looked out one evening, they saw that the sun set in

the same place or perhaps a little to the north from where it had set the

night before, and the older ones said, to the great excitement of the

children, that tomorrow would be the day.

So again, at the end of the twenty-second year, they gathered at the rock,

and Ish with his harnmer and cold-chisel cut 22 into the surface of the

rock just below 21. They were all there at the rock, because the day was

fair, and warm for winter, and the mothers had brought even the youngest

babies. Then after the numeral had been cut, all those who were old enough

to talk called out Happy New Year as it had been in the Old Times, and as

it was still at this time.

But when Ish asked, following the ritual set in the last years, what should

be the name of the year, there came only sudden silence.

At last the one to speak was Ezra, the good helper, who knew the ways of

men:

"Too much has happened this year, and whatever name we give the year will

have a bad sound to us. People find comfort in numbers, and no bad

thoughts. Let us give this year no name, but remember it only as the Year

22."

*Here ends Part II. The second inter-chapter called* Quick Years

*follows, without time-interval.*

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Quick Years*

Once again the years flowed quickly, and now no longer he struggled and

threshed, but instead, floated easily with the current.

In these years they grew a little corn, not much, but enough to harvest a

small crop and to keep the seeds alive. Every autumn--as if the falling of

the first rain gave a signal--the children played with bows and arrows for a

while before they tired of the game. Now and then all the adults drew

together to a conference, like a town-meeting, and what was decided there,

each one knew, was binding upon them all.

"These things at least!" Ish thought. "These things at least, I have

assured for the future." Yet in the meetings, more and more with every

year, those who spoke and took action were young men. Ish, to be sure,

presided. He sat facing all the others, and those wishing to speak rose and

addressed him respectfully. He sat there, holding his hammer or balancing

it beside him. When argument between two of the young men became too

heated, Ish pounded with the hammer, and the young men were suddenly quiet

and deferential. But if he himself spoke, though they listened intently,

often they paid no attention to his ideas afterward.

So the years flowed--The Year 23 "Of the Mad Wolf," the Year 24 "Of the

Blackberries," the Year 25 "Of the Long Rain."

Then came the Year 26, and old George was with them no more. He had been

painting on a ladder. Whether his heart stopped and he fell, or whether he

fell accidentally and killed himself by falling, no one ever knew. But he

was gone, and after his death the roofs were never in such good repair, and

the trim was never painted. Maurine lived on, for a while, in the neat

house where the pink-fringed bridge-lamps would not light and the console

radio would not play and the scarves were crumpled on the tables. But she

too was old, and she died before the year was out. So they called it the

Year when George and Maurine Died.

And still they ran on--27, 28, 29, 30. It was hard to remember now the

names, and how they came. Was the Good-Corn Year, before the Red-Sunset

Year, and did that come after the Year When Evie Died?

Poor Evie! They buried her next to the others, and in her grave at least

she was no different. All those years she had lived with them, and whether

she had been happy no one knew, and whether they had done well to keep her

living. Only once in all those years had she mattered much, and yet for

that little time, when Charlie had come, she had seemed very important. Now

that she was gone, the young people scarcely missed her; nevertheless the

older ones remembered that her going marked still another broken link with

the Old Times.

With Evie gone, only five of the original ones remained. Jean and Ish were

the youngest of these five, and age showed least in them, although Ish

limped more and more from his old wound. Molly complained of vague

illnesses and wept often. Ezra coughed with his dry cough. Even Em walked

with a less sure and regal grace. Yet actually they all enjoyed amazingly

good health for people of their years, and their various decrepitudes

sprang chiefly from approaching old age.

The Year 34--that was an important one! They had known for some time that

there was another but smaller group of people living across north of the

Bay, but in this year the surprise was that the other people sent a

messenger with the proposal of a union. Ish made the young man keep

distance, for he wanted no repetition of that business of Charlie. Having

got all the information he could from the messenger, he called a meeting.

Ish sat with his hammer, for it was a time of great state. There was a hot

argument. Reinforcing the fear of disease was a prejudice against strangers

and all their strange ways. On the other hand, a kind of fascination in the

very strangeness combatted the prejudice. Besides, there was the strong

desire to strengthen the numbers of The Tribe, and particularly to obtain

wives. For, in late years, fewer girls than boys had been born and some of

the young men had nowhere to look. To Ish also there was the argument that

the in-breeding of The Tribe might be dangerous, for now blood-relationship

was universal and everyone had to marry his cousin.

But Ish himself, along with Ezra, opposed the union. In overwhelming fear

of disease, and Jack and Ralph and Roger, the oldest of the younger men,

remembered the Year 22, and supported Ish and Ezra. But the still younger

men, especially the unmarried ones, clamored for the union, and Ish could

see that the thought of the girls of that other tribe excited them.

Then Em spoke. Her hair was wholly gray now, but her calm voice held them.

"I have said it before," she said. "Life is not lived by denying life. Our

sons and grandsons will need wives. Perhaps death will come also, but that

too we must face."

Not so much by what she said as by the spirit that flowed out from her,

they all had courage. They voted without dissent to admit the others.

This time luck was with them, for the only epidemic was that The Others

contracted measles, and soon were well again.

After that time there was always a division within The Tribe, as of two

clans--The First Ones and The Others. When they intermarried, the children

were of their father's clan, although Ish had wondered whether

mother-lineage might not prevail, as with many primitive people. But the

old tradition of the Americans was too strong.

Then in the next year Ish realized more than ever that Em walked no longer

with that regal grace; suddenly when he looked at her, he saw strange lines

in her face, not the lines of old age, but the lines of pain. Behind the

darkness of the cheeks there was not the glow of red but an ashy gray. Deep

within him he felt chill and fear, and he knew that this also had come

close to its end.

Sometimes, in those grim months that followed, he thought to himself, "This

may be merely appendicitis, The pain is in that place. Why can I not

operate? I can read the books. I could find out how it is done. One of the

boys could manage the ether. At worst, I would only end the pain."

But always he realized that it could not be--for his hands were no longer

young and sure, and his courage too perhaps had grown weak, so that he

dared not draw the knife-edge across the side of her whom he loved. So he

knew that Em must face the future alone.

Before long, too, he knew that this was not appendicitis. As the sun swung

southward again, she weakened and walked no more. He hunted in the ruinous

drug stores, and found powders and syrups, so that at least she suffered

little. After she had taken the medicine, she would sleep or lie quietly,

smiling. Then after a while, when the pain again began to make her toss, he

would think: "Perhaps I should make the dose larger still, and bring a

finish to all pain."

But he did not. For she, he knew, had always reached out toward life, and

her courage would not fail.

So he sat long hours by the bed, holding her hand, and now and then they

talked.

As it always had been, she was the one who comforted him, although she was

the one who lay in pain and was going. Yes, he realized, she had been

mother as well as wife.

"Don't worry," she said once, "about the children, I mean--and the

grandchildren and all those that will come after. They will be happy, I

think. At least, they may be as happy as they would have been otherwise.

Don't care too much about that civilization. They will go on!"

Had she known all along? He wondered. Had she known that he would fail? Had

she sensed how it would be? Perhaps because she was a woman? Perhaps

because within her veins ran a different strain of blood? And again he

puzzled over what made greatness--either in man or woman.

Josey cared for the house now, and for her mother--Josey, herself a mother,

straight and full-breasted and walking with easy grace. Of them all, she

had grown to be most like Em.

The others came also to the bedside--the tall sons and the strong daughters

and the grandchildren. Already the oldest grandsons were shooting up tall

and on bodies of the granddaughters the fullness of their womanhood was

showing.

Looking at them, as they passed the bedside, Ish knew that Em was right.

"They will go on!" he thought. "The simple ones are also the strong ones.

They will go on!"

At last one day he sat, again holding her hand. She was very weak, and then

suddenly he knew that a third and dark presence was there beside them. She

spoke no more and only once he felt a light flutter of her fingers within

his hand.

"Oh, Mother of Nations!" he thought. "Her sons shall praise, and her

daughters call her blessed!"

Then where there had been three, now there was only one, for Death had gone

and she too. He sat there bowed and dry-eyed. That too was finished. They

would bury her, Mother of Nations, and place no marker, for that was their

custom. And, as it was in the beginning, since love first and sorrow with

it came to the world, he sat with his dead. And he knew that greatness had

passed from them.

Yet still the years flowed, and the sun swung from north of the mountain.

south past the Golden Gate, and back again. More years were carved into the

rock.

One spring Molly died suddenly of what they took to be heart-failure. That

same year a great tumor grew within Jean--swiftly, like a nightmare growth.

There was no one who knew how to help her, and when she had died by her own

hand, there was no one who blamed her.

"We are going, we are going!" thought Ish. "We Americans are old, and are

dropping like last spring's leaves." So sometimes he was sad. Yet, as he

walked along the hillside, he saw many children playing busily, and young

men shouting to one another, and mothers nursing their babies--and little

sadness, and much merriment.

One day Ezra came to him, saying: "You should take another wife." Ish

looked at him with questioning eyes. "No," said Ezra, "I am too old. You

are younger. There is a young woman of The Others, and no man to marry her.

Except for an old man, it is better not to be alone. And there should be

more children."

He felt no love, but he took her. She comforted him in the long nights, for

he was still a man in his strength. She bore him children, though the

children seemed always a little strange to him--scarcely his, because they

were not also Em's.

More years were carved in the rock. Except for Ish and Ezra, all the

Americans now were gone, and Ezra was a little dried-up wrinkled man who

coughed and grew thinner and thinner. Ish himself was wholly gray-haired

now. Though he was not heavy, his paunch stuck out, and he was thin-legged

in the manner of old men. His side hurt him where the mountain-lion had

clawed him years back; so he walked little. Yet still his young wife bore

him a child in the Year 42. He was not greatly interested in that child,

and also now he had great-grandchildren.

On the day when the Year 43 had ended, Ish did not feel like walking as far

as the flat rock where they carved the numerals, and Ezra was too frail. So

they put off carving the date in the rock or giving a name. They said to

each other now and then that really they must do it, or else arrange with

some of the younger men to carve the numerals, and sometimes also the

younger men and even the children talked of it. But in a way that such

things go, once it had been put off, still it was put off again. "Today is

rainy," or "It is too cold," or "We are going fishing, and shall do it

later." So the numerals were not carved, and the name was not given, and

life went on with no one caring greatly. After that, no one knew how many

years passed.

Now no more children were born to Ish's young wife. Then one day she came

to him with a younger man, and the two asked, respectfully, that Ish should

give her to that one.

Then at last Ish realized that in this his curious life, he had now come

close to the last stage of all. More and more often, after that, he and

Ezra sat together as two old men.

There was nothing strange that two old men should sit together and talk,

but what was strange here was that there were no other old people at all.

Elsewhere everything was youth, at least by comparison. There were births

and there were deaths, but always there were more births than deaths, and

because everyone was youthful, there was much laughter.

As the quick years passed and the two old men sat on the hillside in the

sun, they began to talk more and more about what had happened long ago.

There was little that anyone--they, at least--could talk about as far as

these years now were concerned. Some years were called good years and some

were called bad years, but there was not much difference. So chiefly the

two old men talked about things of long ago, and occasionally they

speculated about life.

Often, when they talked, Ish realized that there was still wisdom and help

in Ezra.

"A tribe is like a child," he said once, in that thin piping old-man's

voice, which every day seemed more like a bird's--and then he coughed. When

he recovered, he spoke again, "Yes, a tribe is like a child. You can show

it the way by which it should grow up, and perhaps you can direct it a

little, but in the end the child will go his own way, and so will the

tribe."

"Yes," he said again on some other day, "time makes all things clear.

Everything seems plainer to me now than it once did, and if I should live

for a hundred years more, perhaps everything that has happened so far would

seem very plain and simple."

Often they talked of the other Americans, those who now were gone. They

laughed, remembering good old George, and Maurine with her fine radio that

would never play. They smiled when they recalled Jean, and her refusal to

go to church.

"Yes," said Ezra, "it is all clearer now with time. Why each of them

survived the Great Disaster--that I still do not know. But I think I can see

why each of them survived the shock that came afterwards, when so many went

under. George and Maurine, and perhaps Molly too, they lived on and did not

go crazy because they were stolid and had no imagination. And Jean survived

because she had her temper and fought back at life; and I, because I went

out from myself and shared the lives of other people. And you and Em..."

But here Ezra paused, so that Ish himself could speak.

"Yes," said Ish, "you are right, I think.... And I, I could live because I

stood at one side and watched what was happening. And as for Em..."

There he too paused, and Ezra spoke again.

"Well, as we were, so The Tribe will be. It will not be brilliant because

we were not like that. Perhaps the brilliant ones were not suited to

survive.... But as for Em, there is no need to explain, for we know that

she was the strongest of us all. Yes, we needed many things. We needed

George and his carpentry, and we needed your foresight, and perhaps we

needed my knack of making one person work better with another, even though

I did little by myself. But most of all, I think, we needed Em, for she

gave us courage, and without courage there is only a slow dying, not life."

Almost while they sat there, it seemed to Ish, a fast-growing tree sprang

up on the hillside below them, and grew until it cut off the view across

the Bay, where the rust-red towers of the great bridge still stood high.

And then after a while the tree seemed to sicken and die and fall. Again,

from where he liked to sit in the sun on the hillside, he could look out

and see the bridge. And once, as he looked, there was great fire raging in

the ruinous city beyond the Bay, and he remembered that far, far back--even

before he had been born--that city had burned before. Now it burned for a

week, with the dry north wind driving the flames; there was no one to put

it out, and no one even to care whether it burned. When the flames died

down, nothing was left to burn.

There came a time when even talking seemed a labor. So mostly now Ish

merely sat comfortably in the sun, and beside him sat an even older man who

coughed and grew thinner. It was hard to tell just how the days passed and

how they ran into weeks, and even the years seemed to flow with a man's

scarcely noticing them. Yet Ezra remained, and sometimes Ish thought to

himself, "Though he coughs and coughs and grows thinner, yet he will

outlive me."

But now, since even talking was a labor, the mind turned inward on itself,

and Ish thought of all this strange life. What was the difference in the

end? Even if there had been no Great Disaster, he would now be a very old

man. Now doubtless, if it had not happened otherwise, he would be Professor

Emeritus, puttering around, taking some books out of the Library and

intending to do some research, a little of a nuisance to the younger men in

their fifties and sixties who now ran the Department--though they might say

loyally to the graduate students, "That's Professor Williams--a great

scholar, once. We're very proud of him."

Now the Old Times were deeper buried than Nineveh or Mohenjodaro. He

himself had seen everything crash and go under. Yet curiously, too, all

that crash had not been able to destroy his personality. He was still the

same person he would have been as Professor Emeritus, even though now the

shadows were closing in on his mind while he sat on a lonely hillside as

the dying patriarch of a primitive tribe.

At some time in those years something else strange began to happen. The

younger men had always come to Ish for advice, but now--even though the

shadows were closing in on his mind--they began to come in a different way.

Whether he sat on the hillside in the sun, or whether, during rain and fog,

he sat in the house, still they began to come to him bearing little gifts--a

handful of ripe berries of which he was fond, or a bright stone or piece of

colored glass to flash in the sun. Ish did not care for the glass or

stones, even though the stones were sometimes sapphires or emeralds taken

from a jewelry store, but he appreciated the gifts because he realized that

the young men were giving him things by which they themselves would be

pleased.

Having given him something, they would formally ask a question, while he

sat holding his hammer. Sometimes they asked about the weather, and then

Ish was glad to answer. He could still look at his father's barometer, and

so he could often say--what the young men could not know--whether the low

clouds would soon vanish before the sun's heat or they indicated an

approaching storm.

But sometimes they asked him other questions--as, for instance, in which

direction they should go for good hunting. Then Ish did not wish to answer,

for he knew nothing of such matters. But when he did not answer, the young

men were displeased, and then they would pinch him roughly. Because he was

in pain he answered them, even though he knew nothing. He would cry out,

"Go south!" or "Go beyond the hills!" Then the young men were pleased and

went off. Ish sometimes feared that they would come back and pinch him

because they had not found good hunting, but they never did.

During those years, there were days when he thought clearly, and other days

when a fog seemed to hang in all the corners of his brain. But one day when

they came to ask him a question and he was clear-minded, he realized that

he must have become a god, or at least an oracle by which a god spoke. Then

he remembered that time long ago when the children had been afraid to carry

the hammer and when they had nodded knowingly at his saying he was an

American. Yet he had never wished to be a god.

One day Ish sat on the hillside in the sun, and after a while he looked at

his left side, and saw that no one sat there. Then he realized that at last

Ezra, the good helper, was gone, and that no one would ever sit there

beside him on the hillside again. At that thought he gripped the handle of

the hammer, which in these days was very heavy for him to lift, even with

both hands.

"It is called a single-jack," he thought, "but now it is too heavy for my

one hand. Yet now it has become the symbol of a tribal god, and it is still

with me, though all the others, even Ezra, have gone."

Then, because the shock of that sudden knowledge about Ezra had made him

think and see more clearly, he looked alertly about him, and observed that

he was sitting on the slope of the hill where many years before there had

been a neat garden and was now only a trampled place of tall grass in the

midst of overgrown bushes and high trees, with a half-ruined house standing

up from among the tangle.

Then he looked at the sun, and saw that it was in the east, not in the

west, as he had thought it would be. Also, it was far to the north, so that

the season must be nearly mid-summer, whereas he had thought it should be

early spring. Yes, in all those years, as he had sat on the hillside, he

had lost hold of time itself, so that the swinging of the sun from east to

west with the passing of the day seemed much the same as the swinging of

the sun from north to south with the passing of the seasons, and he had

lost track of them both. This thought made him feel very old and very sad.

Perhaps that sadness brought back to him the thought of other sadness also,

and he thought:

"Yes, Em is gone, and Joey, and even Ezra, my helper, is gone now."

When he thus recalled all that had happened, and his loneliness, he began

to cry gently, for he was an old man, and he could not control what he did.

And he thought to himself, "Yes, they are all gone! I am the last

American!"

*End of the second inter-chapter called* Quick Years.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*3*

*The Last American*

'Tis merry, 'tis merry in good greenwood.

-- Old Song

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 1*

Perhaps it was that same day or perhaps it was only that same summer or

perhaps even it was another year.... When Ish looked up, he saw, very

clearly, a young man standing in front of him. The young man wore a

neat-enough pair of blue jeans with copper rivets shining brightly, and yet

over his shoulders he wore a tawny hide with sharp claws dangling from it.

In his hand he held a strong bow, and over his shoulder was a quiver with

the feathered ends of arrows sticking from it. Ish blinked, for in his old

eyes the sunshine was strong.

"Who are you?" said Ish.

The young man answered respectfully, "I am Jack, Ish, as indeed you

yourself well know."

The way he said "Ish" did not indicate that he was trying to be unduly

familiar with an old man, thus calling him by a nickname, but rather it

carried something of great respect and even of awe, and as if "Ish" stood

for much more than merely the name of an old man.

But Ish himself was confused, and he squinted, peering more carefully,

because at short distances he no longer saw clearly. But he was sure that

Jack should have dark hair, or perhaps turned somewhat gray by now, and

this one who called himself Jack had long wavy yellow hair.

"You should not make jokes with an old man," said Ish. "Jack is my oldest

son, and I would recognize him. He has dark hair, and he is older than

you."

The young man laughed, but politely, and said, "You are talking, Ish, of my

grandfather, as indeed you yourself well know." Again the way in which he

said "Ish" had a certain strange sound to it, and now Ish noticed also the

strangeness of his other repeated words, "as indeed you yourself well

know."

"Are you of the First Ones?" Ish asked. "Or of the Others?"

"Of the First Ones," he said.

Then, as Ish still looked, he was puzzled that the young man, who was

certainly not a child, was carrying a bow instead of a rifle. "Why do you

not have a rifle?" he asked.

"Rifles are good for playthings!" the young man said, and he laughed, a

little scornfully perhaps. "You cannot be sure of a rifle, as indeed you

yourself, Ish, well know. Sometimes the rifle works, and it makes the big

noise, but other times you pull the trigger, and it only goes 'click.'"

Here he snapped his fingers. "So you cannot use the rifles for real

hunting, although the older men say that this was not so in the long past

years. But now we use the arrow because it is sure, and never refuses to

fly and besides," here the young man held himself proudly, "besides, it is

a matter of strength and skill to shoot with the bow--but anyone, they say,

could shoot with a rifle, as you yourself, Ish, well know."

"Let me see an arrow," said Ish.

The young man took an arrow from the quiver, and looked at it, and then

handed it across.

"That is a good arrow," he said. "I made it myself."

Ish looked at the arrow and felt the weight of it. This was no plaything

for a child. The shaft was nearly a yard long, split cleanly from a billet

of flawless straight-grained wood, and then rounded and smoothed. It was

well feathered, with pinions of some kind, although Ish could not see well

enough to know what bird had yielded the feathers. By feeling, however, he

could tell that they were arranged carefully so that the arrow in flight

would spin like a rifle-bullet, and thus keep its true course and carry

farther.

Then he observed the arrowhead, again more by feel than by sight. The

arrowhead was very sharp both at the point and along the edges. Ish nearly

pricked his thumb. It had the bumpy yet slick feel which told him that it

was of hammered metal. Though he could not see very clearly, he made the

color out as silvery-white.

"What is *that* made of?" he asked.

"It is from one of the little round things. They have faces on them. The

old men have a name for them, but I do not remember exactly. It is

something like *corns.*"

The young man paused, as if to be told the right word, but when he had no

reply, he went on again, being obviously eager to show off his knowledge

about arrowheads.

"We find these little round things in the old buildings. Often there are

many--many--of them in the boxes and drawers. Sometimes they are rolled up

together in bundles like short round sticks, but heavier than sticks. Some

are red and some are white, like this one, and there are two kinds of the

white. The one kind of white--the one that has the picture of the

hump-backed bull--we do not use those because they are harder to pound."

Ish considered, and thought that he understood.

"And this white one here?" he asked. "Was there a relief--picture--on this

one?"

The young man took the arrow from Ish, and looked at it, and then handed it

back.

"They all have pictures," he said. "But I was looking to see if I could

still make out what picture was on this one. It has not quite all gone

because of the hammering. This was one of the littlest ones, and it had the

picture of the woman with the wings growing out of her head. Some of them

have pictures of hawks--but not real hawks." The young man was talking very

happily. "Others have men; at least, they look like men--one with a beard,

and one with long hair hanging behind him and another with a strong-looking

face, without a beard and with short hair, and heavy-jawed."

"And who--who do you think--were all these men?"

The young man glanced both ways, as if a little nervous.

"These--oh, these--yes! These, we think--as you yourself, Ish, well know--these

were the Old Ones that were before our Old Ones!"

When there was no thunder from heaven and when the young man could see that

Ish was not displeased, he went on:

"Yes, that must be it--as you yourself, Ish, well know. These men, and the

hawks, and the bull! Perhaps the woman with the wings growing from her head

sprang from the marriage of a hawk and a woman. But, however it is, they do

not seem to mind our taking their pictures and hammering them up for

arrowheads. I have wondered about it. Perhaps they are too great to care

about little things, or perhaps they did their work a long time ago and

have now grown old and weak.

He stopped talking, but Ish could see that he was pleased with himself, and

liked to talk, and was thinking quickly of something more to say. He, at

least, had imagination.

"Yes," the young man continued, "I have an idea. Our Old Ones--they were the

Americans--made the houses and bridges and the little round things that we

hammer out for arrowheads. But those others--the Old Ones of the Old

Ones--perhaps they made the hills and the sun, and the Americans

themselves."

Then, though it was a cheap trick to play on the young man, Ish could not

resist talking in double meaning.

"Yes," he said, "I have heard it said that those older Old Ones produced

the Americans--but I rather doubt that they made the hills and the sun."

Though he could not have understood, perhaps the young man caught the irony

in the tone, and so said nothing.

"But, go on," Ish continued then. "Tell me more about the arrowheads

themselves. I am not interested in your cosmogony." He used the last word

in good-humored malice, knowing that the other would not understand it, but

would be impressed by its length and strange sound.

"Yes, about the arrowheads," the young man said, hesitating a moment, and

then regaining confidence. "We use both the red and the white. The red are

good for shooting cattle and lions. The white are for deer and other game."

"Why is that?" Ish asked sharply, for he felt his old-time rationalism

stirring at the thought of all such magic and hocus-pocus. The question,

however, seemed only to surprise and confuse the young man.

"Why?" he asked. "Why? How could anyone know why? Except you yourself, Ish!

This matter of the red and white arrowheads is merely something that *is.*

It is like--" He hesitated, and then the sunlight seemed to catch his

attention. "Yes, it is like the sun that keeps on going round the earth,

but naturally no one knows why, or asks why. *Why* should there be a

*why*?"

Having said these last words, the young man was obviously very pleased with

himself as if he had propounded some great philosophical dictum, although

undoubtedly he had spoken only in great simplicity. But when Ish turned the

matter over in his mind, he was not sure. Perhaps even in this simplicity

there was a depth. Was there ever an answer to "why"? Did not things just

exist in the present?

Yet, Ish was certain, a fallacy lurked somewhere in the argument. A sense

of cause-and-effect was necessary for the life at the human level, and this

matter of the different-colored arrowheads was a proof of it, not the

contrary. Only, the sense of causation here was faulty and irrational. The

young man was maintaining an absurdity--that cattle and lions could be

better killed with copper arrowheads hammered from pennies, whereas deer

were better killed with silver ones hammered from dimes or quarters. Yet

there could obviously not be enough difference in hardness or sharpness to

matter. Only, in these primitive minds, the secondary matter of color had

in some way come to be considered--this was rank superstition!--the

determining factor.

Deep within him, Ish again felt his old hatred of loose thinking boil up.

Though he was an old man, still he might do something.

*"No!"* he said, so sharply that the young man started. *"No!* That is not

right. The white arrowheads and the red! One just as well as...."

Then, slowly his voice trailed off. No, he thought, that was not the way it

was destined to be. He heard a rich contralto voice saying to him, "Relax!"

Perhaps he might persuade this young man named Jack, who was undoubtedly a

remarkably intelligent and imaginative young man, possibly even somewhat

like that little one named Joey. But what would it accomplish? Only,

perhaps to make the young man confused and ill at ease among all the

others. And what was really the difference? At least, copper arrowheads

were not *less* effective against lions, and if the bowman thought them

*more* effective, the thought gave him courage and steadied his hand.

So Ish said nothing more about the matter, and smiled at the young man

reassuringly, and looked again at the arrow. Another thought came to him,

and he asked:

"Can you always find plenty of those little round things?"

The young man laughed merrily, as if this were a strange question.

"Oh, yes," he said. "There are so many that if all of us spent all our time

pounding out arrowheads, still we should never run short."

Ish considered. Yes, that was probably true. Even if there were a hundred

men in The Tribe by now, there must be thousands and thousands of coins

readily to be found in tills and cash-boxes, even in this one corner of the

city. And if the coins should be exhausted, there would be thousands of

miles of copper telephone wire. When he had first made an arrow, he

recollected, he had imagined that The Tribe would revert to stone

arrowheads. Instead they had taken a short-cut, and were already fashioning

metal. So perhaps The Tribe, his own descendants, had already passed the

turning-point, were no longer forgetting more old things than they were

learning new things, and were no longer sinking toward savagery, but were

maintaining a stable level or perhaps gradually beginning to win new

security. By showing them how to make bows, he had helped, and he felt

greatly comforted.

Then, having finished looking at the arrow, Ish handed it back. "It seems

to be a very good arrow," he said, although he did not really know much

about arrows.

Nevertheless the young man smiled with great happiness at this praise of

his arrow, and Ish noted that he made a mark on it before he put it back

into the quiver, as if he wished to know it and distinguish it from other

arrows after what had happened. Then, as he still looked at the young man,

Ish felt a sudden great love for him, and he had not been so moved for a

long time since he had been sitting as an old man on the hillside. This

Jack, who was of the First Ones, must be Ish's great-grandson in the male

line, and he was also Em's great-grandson. So, as Ish looked, his heart

yearned outwards, and he asked a strange question:

"Young man," he said, "are you happy?" The young man named Jack looked

startled at this question, and he glanced in both directions before

answering, and then he spoke.

"Yes, I am happy. Things are as they are, and I am part of them."

Ish began to think of what this might mean and to wonder again whether the

words had been spoken only in simplicity or whether there was some deep

philosophy behind them, but he could not decide. At his trying to think,

the fog seemed again to move in at the corners of his brain. But still he

recollected vaguely that the words--strange as they were--had a ring of

familiarity about them. He had not perhaps ever heard those exact words

before, but they were words that someone whom he had once known might well

have spoken. For in his words the young man had not questioned, but had

accepted. Ish could not recall this person exactly, but he remembered

softness and warmth, and warm feelings flowed through him.

When he came out of his reverie and looked up again, no one was standing in

front of him. In fact, Ish would have been unable to say surely whether the

young man named Jack had been there that same day, or whether this was now

some other day, or perhaps even another summer.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 2*

He awoke so early, one morning, that the room was still in half-darkness.

He lay quiet for a moment, wondering where he was, and for a moment he

thought that he was a small boy again and had crawled into his mother's bed

for comfort in the early morning. Then he realized that it could not be so,

and he thought that if he stretched out his hand he would find Em lying

there beside him. But that was not so, either. Then he thought of his young

wife. But no, she would not be there either, for long ago he had given her

to a younger man because it is right that a woman should bear children so

that the tribe will increase and the darkness draw farther back. So then at

last he realized that he was a very old man, and was lying in the bed by

himself. Nevertheless, it was the same bed and the same room.

There was a strange dryness in his throat. After a minute he slowly got out

of bed, and uncertainly on his old stiff legs he walked to the bathroom for

a drink of water. As he went into the bathroom, he stretched out his right

hand, and flipped the electric-light switch. It made the familiar click,

and suddenly the room was brilliant to his eyes. Then after a moment he

found himself in the half-darkness of dawn again, and he realized that the

electric light had not flashed on. It had not so flashed for years, and

would never again--and the familiar click had merely fooled his old brain,

so that for a moment the room had seemed light. All this did not bother

him, because it had thus happened before.

Also, when he turned the stiff faucet-handle at the washbowl, no water

gushed out merrily. Then he remembered that years ago the water had ceased

to run.

He could not get his drink of water, but he was not so much thirsty as

merely bothered by that dryness in the throat.

After he had swallowed a few times, he felt better. When he stood by the

bedside again, he hesitated, sniffing. He could remember many changes of

smells through the years. Far back there had been the smell of a great

city. That had given way to the clean smell of green things and growth. But

that also had yielded, and now there was about the old house a smell of age

and decay. That smell, however, was familiar and was not bothering him.

What he was trying to assay was a kind of dry smokiness. That dryness, he

considered, had made him wake up so early. But he felt no fear, and crawled

into bed again.

A steady wind was blowing from the north. It tossed the pine trees that now

grew closely around the house, and the branches swished and knocked against

the windows and against the walls of the house.

The noise kept him awake, and he lay there listening. He wished that he

knew the time, but he no longer kept a clock wound. Time in its old sense

of appointments to be kept and things to be done--all that had long since

ceased to exist, both because the way of life had changed and because he

himself was so old as to be almost out of life. In certain ways he had

already, as it seemed, passed from time to eternity.

Now he lay by himself in the old and half-ruined house. The others slept in

other houses, or in good weather lay in the open. Perhaps they felt that

ghosts walked in this old house. Well, perhaps! To Ish himself the thoughts

of those who had been long dead were often more immediately present than

the bodies of those now living.

Though he had no clock, the half-light told him that the time could not be

much before sunrise. Perhaps he had slept as long as an old man needed to

sleep. He would lie there, turning himself over occasionally, until the sun

had risen, and someone--he hoped it would be the young man called Jack--came

to bring him his breakfast. There would be a well-braised beef bone on

which he could suck, and some corn-meal boiled into a mush. The Tribe took

good care of him, an old man. They let him have corn-meal though that was

something of a rarity with them. They sent someone to carry his hammer and

help him outdoors, so that he could sit on the hillside when there was

sunshine. Often the one who came to help him was Jack. Yes, they took very

good care of him, even though he was a useless old man. Sometimes they grew

angry with him and pinched him, but that was only because they thought he

was a god.

The wind still blew, and the branches brushed and slapped against the

house. But he had apparently not slept as much as he needed to sleep, and

after a while he drowsed off, in spite of the noises.

*The cuts in the hills and the long embankments for the roads--they will

still show as narrow valleys and ridges even after ten thousand years have

passed. The great masses of concrete that were the dams--they will remain

like the dikes of the granite itself.*

*But the steel and the wood will pass quickly. The three fires will take

them.*

*Slowest of all is the fire of rust that burns at the steel. Yet give it

some short centuries, and the high trestle that spans the canyon will be

only a line of red soil on the slopes below.*

*Faster by far is the fire of decay that feeds on the wood.*

*But fastest of all is the fire of the flames.*

Then suddenly someone was shaking him hard. He awoke with a great shock. As

he focused his old eyes, he saw that the person who was shaking him was the

young man named Jack, and that Jack's face was tense with fear.

"Get up! Get up quick!" Jack was saying. With the shock of the sudden

awakening, Ish's mind seemed clearer than before, and both his body and his

mind reacted faster. He moved quickly, pulling on some clothes. Jack helped

him. Smoke was heavy in the room now, no longer a mere smell. Ish coughed,

and his eyes watered. He heard a crackle and a dull roar. They went

downstairs quickly, and out the front door, and down the steps toward the

street. Only when he was out of the house did Ish realize how strongly the

wind was blowing. Smoke rolled before it, and bits of burning leaves and

bark swirled along.

Ish was not surprised. He had known always that this must happen some time.

Every year the oat-grass grew tall, and then ripened and dried where it

stood. Every year the bushes of the deserted gardens had grown more thick,

and the dead leaves had fallen among them. It was only a question of time,

he had always known, until some hunter's campfire would escape from him,

and with a strong wind driving it, the fire would make a clean sweep on

this side of the Bay, as it had on the other.

Just as they reached the sidewalk, the thick clump of underbrush around the

next house to the north suddenly went up in a roar of flame so that Ish

shrank away from the heat. Jack began to hurry him along the sidewalk away

from the approaching fire, and just at that moment Ish realized that he had

forgotten something although he could not remember just what.

They came to two other young men who were standing there looking at the

approaching flames. Then Ish remembered.

"My hammer!" he cried out. "Where is my hammer?"

As soon as he had cried out, he was ashamed of himself to have made so much

fuss about a trifle in a time of emergency. After all, the hammer was of no

importance. Then he was amazed to see what a tremendous impression his

words had made upon the three young men. They looked at each other as if

they were panic-stricken. Suddenly, Jack dashed back toward the house, even

though the bushes in the garden itself were now beginning to smoke.

"Come back! Come back!" Ish called after him, but his voice was not very

strong, and he was half choking on account of the smoke.

This was a terrible thing, Ish was thinking to himself, that Jack should be

burned in the fire about such a small matter as a hammer.

But then Jack came running out. His lion-skin cloak was singed, and he

himself was rubbing at some burns where sparks had fallen on him. But

otherwise he was not hurt. The other young men seemed strangely relieved

that he was carrying the hammer in his hand.

Obviously, they could not stay where they were very long because the flames

were bearing down upon them.

"Where shall we go, Ish?" one of them asked. Ish felt that this was a

strange question for anyone to ask of him, who was only an old man and

would scarcely know what to do as well as the young ones would. Then he

remembered that they sometimes asked him which direction they should take

for their hunting. When he did not answer, they pinched him. He did not

like to be pinched, and so he thought hard now, as to which way they should

go. The young men themselves, he realized, could outrun the fire, but he

himself would not be strong enough. So he thought more intensely than he

had thought for a long time, both because he wished to save his own life

and the lives of the young men, and also because he was afraid that they

would pinch him. Thinking so intently, he remembered the bare flat rock

where they had carved the numerals of the years in the time long ago. Round

this flat rock were other high rocks where nothing grew, and in the spaces

among these rocks they could find shelter because nothing was there to

burn.

"Let us go to the rocks!" he said then, being sure that they would know

what rocks he meant.

Even though the young men helped him, Ish was very tired when they got to

the safety of the rocks. Once they were there, however, he lay quietly,

panting and recovering his strength. The fire was soon burning all around,

but among the rocks they were not in danger. There was an overhang to the

one rock, and another tall rock close by, so that they were almost in a

cave.

As he lay there, Ish dozed off with his weariness, or perhaps it was more

as if he had fainted, because his old heart was pounding wildly after the

dash ahead of the flames. But after a while he came to himself, and lay

there quietly, and his mind seemed closer than it had been for a long time.

Yes, he thought, it is now the dry autumn, and the time of bad fires

because of dry north winds. And this is the autumn following that summer

when I first came to know Jack, and talked to him about the arrowheads.

Since then Jack has been the one who has chiefly taken care of me, as The

Tribe at its meeting has undoubtedly ordered him to do. After all, I am

very important. I am a god. No, I am not a god. But perhaps I am the

mouth-piece of a god. No, I know that I am not that either. But at least

they give me care, and I have comfort, because I am the last American.

Then again, since he was exhausted from his flight in front of the flames,

he fell asleep, or perhaps fainted.

After a while he came to himself once more. He could not have been

unconscious for very long, for he heard the flames still crackling. When he

opened his eyes, all he could see was the grayness of the rock-overhang

above him, and he realized that he must be lying on his back. He heard

little noises of scuffling and the playful growls of a dog.

But now with this return to consciousness his mind seemed even clearer than

before, so clear indeed that he was startled at first, and then a little

frightened. For he seemed to know all the past and all the future too, as

well as what was actually present.

"This second world--it has gone too." The thoughts flickered through his

mind. "I saw the great world go. Now this little world, my second world, is

going. It is going by fire. This fire that we have known so long--fire that

warms us; fire that destroys us. They used to say that because of the bombs

we would go back and live in caves. Well, here is a cave--but we have not

marched by the road that anyone imagined. I survived the loss of that, my

great world, but I shall not outlast the destruction of this, my little

world. I am an old man now, and also my mind is too clear. I know. This is

near the end. From the cave we came, and to the cave we return."

Just as his mind had grown clearer, so also his sight seemed clearer than

usual. After a while, feeling stronger, he sat up, and then he could see

all the others. At first he was surprised because there were not only three

young men but also two dogs. He did not remember having seen the dogs

before. They were ordinary dogs of the kind used for hunting--not large,

long haired, mostly black with some white on them, a kind of sheep dog, he

supposed they would have been called in the Old Times. They were

intelligent dogs, and even well-mannered. They lay quietly now in the

cave-like overhang of the rocks, and did not make any excitement of

barking.

Then Ish looked at the young men. Since now, all at once, he seemed to see

the past and the future as well as the present, he could look more clearly

at the young men for the mixture of the past, present and future that they

really were. Their clothing was like Jack's. They had soft, well-fashioned

moccasin-like footgear of deer-hide; they also wore blue jeans with bright

copper rivets in them. Above their waists they had only the tawny

lion-skins with the dangling paws and the claws still attached. Each one of

them had his bow and quiver Of arrows, and each wore a knife at his belt,

although they could not make knives. One of them had a spear with a shaft

as tall as himself, and extending above the shaft, a spear-head. When Ish

looked at it more carefully, he saw that it was really an old butcher-knife

with an eighteen-inch blade. The blade had been socketed into the end of

the spear-shaft, and since the blade was very sharp-pointed, this was a

formidable weapon for the close fighting.

Then at last Ish looked at the faces of the young men, and he saw that they

were different from the faces of the men of long ago. These faces were

young, but also they were calm, and they seemed to bear on them few lines

of strain and worry and fear.

"See!" said one of them. and he was nodding in the direction of Ish.

"See--he is better now! He is looking around." Ish realized that the voice

was kindly, and he felt a great love for the young man even though a little

while ago he had been afraid that that particular one would be the first to

pinch him.

Something else that was strange also, Ish thought now, was that after all

these years the young men still talked a language which people had once

called English.

Only, as he considered more carefully, he realized that the language too

had changed. When the young man had said the word "see," the sound was not

quite as it should be. Instead it sounded more as if it were "tsee," or

perhaps, "tchee."

Some smoke was drifting in between the rocks now, so that they coughed a

little. Outside, there was a great crackle of flame; a clump of trees or a

near-by house must be burning. The dogs whined a little. Yet the air

remained cool enough, so that Ish was not afraid.

He wondered what had become of all the others. There must be several

hundred people in The Tribe now. The labor of asking questions seemed too

much, and he could tell from the calmness of the young men that there could

have been no disaster. Most likely, he thought, the others had left at the

first threat of fire, and perhaps only at the last moment Jack had

remembered the old man--who was also a god--who was sleeping alone in the

house.

Yes, now it was easier merely to sit and look and think, without asking

questions. So he looked at the faces again.

Now one of the young men was playing with a dog. He put out his hand, and

then jerked it away quickly, and the dog snapped playfully and growled. The

dog and the young man seemed almost to meet at the same level, and both

seemed happy. One of the others was carving a piece of wood. The sharp

knife bit deeply into the soft wood, and a figure took shape as Ish

watched. Ish smiled quietly to himself, for he saw that the figure had wide

hips and generous breasts, and he realized that young men had not changed

altogether. Though he did not even know their names, except for Jack, yet

they must all be his grandsons or great-grandsons. Here they sat in the

cave-like gap between two high rocks, and they played with a dog or carved

lusty little images while outside the fire crackled. Civilization had gone

years ago, and now the last of the city was burning around them, and yet

the young men were happy.

Was it all for the best? From the cave we come and to the cave we go! If

that other one had lived, if there had been others like him, it might have

been different. Again he thought of Joey--Joey! And yet would that have been

better? He wished suddenly that he could live for a long time still--for a

hundred years more, or even a hundred after that. All his life now he had

observed the ways of the peoples on the earth, and he wished that he could

still observe in the future. The next century and the next millennium would

be interesting.

And then for a while, in the way of very old men, he merely sat quietly,

not sleeping, and yet not quite thinking either.

*Again, in that day each little tribe will live by itself and to itself and

go its own way, and their differences will soon be more than they were even

in the first days of Man, according to the accidents of survival and of

place....*

*Here they live always in awe of the Other-world, and scarcely dare make

water without a prayer. They have skill with boats among tidal channels. To

eat, they catch fish and dig clams, and gather seeds of wild-grasses....*

*Here they are darker-skinned and talk another language, and worship a

dark-skinned mother and child. They keep horses and turkeys, and grow corn

in the flat by the river. Thev catch rabbits in snares, but have no

bows....*

*Here they are still darker. They speak English, but say no r's, and their

speech is thick. They keep pigs and chickens, and raise corn. Also they

raise cotton, but make no use of it, except to offer a little to their god,

knowing it from of old to be a thing of power. Their god has the form of an

alligator, and they call him Olsaytn....*

*Here they shoot with the bow, skillfully, and their hunting-dogs are

trained to give tongue. They love assembly and debate. Their womenfolk walk

proudly. The symbol of their god is a hammer, but they pay him no great

reverence....*

*Many others there are too, each differing. In the distant years after

these first years, the tribes will grow more numerous and come together,

and cross-fertilize in body and in mind. Then, doubtless, blindly and of no

one's planning, will come new civilizations and the new wars. *

After a while they grew hungry and very thirsty. Since the fire had now

died down in places, one of the young men sallied out. When he came back,

he was carrying an old aluminum tea-kettle. Ish recognized it as the one

which had been kept at the near-by spring. The young man offered it first

to Ish, and he took a long drink of the cool water. Then the others drank.

Afterwards the same young man pulled a flat tin can out of the hip-pocket

of his blue jeans. The label had long since fallen away from the can, and

the metal was well rusted. The three discussed vigorously among themselves

whether they should eat whatever might be in the can. Some people had died,

one of them argued, from eating out of cans. They argued vigorously, but

did not ask Ish's advice. If there was a picture of a fish or some fruit on

the outside of the can, then you knew that that kind of food was inside.

But even, one of them declared, a rusty can might be dangerous when you

knew what was in it, for in some way, if the rust went clear through the

can, then what was inside might be spoiled.

As Ish, who was not in the argument, could have told them, the obvious

thing to do was to open the can and see in what condition the food inside

might be. But being a very old man and having gained some wisdom with life,

he realized that they were arguing merely for the fun of it, and that

eventually they would get around to a decision.

After a while, indeed, they hacked the can open with one of the knives, and

inside was some reddish brown material. To Ish it was obviously a can of

salmon. They smelled at it inquisitively, and decided that it was not

spoiled. Also they inspected the inside of the can, and found that no rust

had penetrated through it. They divided the salmon, and gave a share to

Ish.

Ish had not seen or eaten any canned salmon for a long time. The meat

looked much darker to him than it should look and it was lacking in flavor.

But its taste--or lack of taste--he decided, might be partly the result of

his own dullness of palate at his age. If it had not been so much trouble

to talk, he would have liked to deliver a lecture to the young men about

all the miracles that lay behind their eating this little snack of salmon.

The fish must have been caught many years before, probably off the coast of

Alaska, a thousand miles and more from the place where they were now eating

it. But even if it had not been so much trouble to talk, still he

recollected he could not even have made the young men understand what he

was talking about. They had seen the ocean, perhaps, because it was not

very far from where they lived, but they would have no conception of a

great ship sailing the ocean, and they would have not known what he meant

when he talked of a thousand miles.

So he ate quietly, and let his eyes rove from one of the young men to

another. More and more often, however, his eyes came to rest upon that

particular one who was called Jack. Life could not have been altogether

easy for Jack. He had a scar on his right arm, and, unless Ish's eyes

deceived him, the left hand had suffered some kind of accident and was a

little twisted. Yes, Jack must have suffered, and yet his face, like those

of the others, was clear of lines and free in all its movements.

Again Ish felt his heart yearn toward the young man, for in spite of the

scar and the twisted hand the young man seemed child-like and innocent, and

Ish was afraid that at some time the world would strike back hard against

him and find him unprepared. Once Ish recollected that he had asked a

question of this young man named Jack. He had asked him, "Are you happy?"

And the young man had answered in such a strange way that Ish had doubted

whether he had understood what the words meant. That was the way the things

happened over all these years; though the language itself had not changed

more than a little, yet there were ideas and differences that had gone out

of people's thought. No longer perhaps did they make that sharp distinction

between pleasure and sorrow that people had once made in the times of

civilization. Perhaps other distinctions too had faded out.

So Jack may not even have understood the question exactly when he had

replied then: "Yes, I am happy. Things are as they are, and I am part of

them."

But at least merriment had not gone out of the world. As Ish rested beneath

the rock-overhang, he saw the others playing with their dogs or joking with

one another. They laughed easily and often. And, as that one still carved

at his wooden figurine, he whistled a tune. It was a gay tune, and Ish

remembered its lilt but not its name or the words to sing with it. Yet it

brought to him a feeling of small bells, and snow, and little glowing red

and green lights, and festivity. Yes, that must have been a gay song even

in the Old Days, and now it sounded gayer than ever. Gaiety--that had

survived the Great Disaster!

The Great Disaster! Ish had not thought of those words for a long time. Now

they seemed to have lost meaning. Those people who had died then would now

be dead anyway, from mere passage of time. Now it seemed to make little

difference whether they had all died in one year, or slowly over many

years. And as for the loss of civilization--about that too he had long

doubted.

The young man still whistled gaily, and Ish thought that he could remember

the words "Oh, what fun it is..." He could ask the young man about the

words. As he sat there in the deep cleft between the two rocks, however,

Ish still found himself too tired to bother asking questions. Nevertheless

his mind was clear. It was frighteningly clear, and he could not remember

when before he had been able to think so deeply in behind the surface of

things.

"What is all this?" he thought to himself. "Why is my mind so keen today?"

He thought that perhaps it might be from the shock of being pulled out of

bed so roughly and forced to leave the burning house. But he was not sure.

All he knew was that he thought more clearly than he had been able to do

since he could remember.

Still he wondered at the faces of the young men and their confidence, when

outside everything was burning. Though Ish could not solve that problem,

yet he thought much about it, and had various ideas. Perhaps, he thought,

the difference lay somewhere in the difference between civilization and the

times in which they now were living. In civilization, he thought, these

young men would have all been considering one another as rivals, because in

the days of civilization there were many men. They did not think much about

the world outside of them because man seemed to be greatly stronger than

all that outside world. So they thought mostly about how they could get the

better of other people, and so they were likely not to trust each other

altogether, not even brother and brother. But now, he thought, when men are

very few, each of these young men wanders freely with his bow in hand and

his dog at heel, but needs his comrade close at call. Nevertheless Ish did

not know, and though his mind thought very clearly and very deeply in those

hours, still he was not sure.

By mid-afternoon the fire had swept past them, and was burning far off to

the south. They left the shelter of the rocks; avoiding places where the

fire was still smouldering and where embers lay hot, they made their way

southward down the slope of the hill gradually, without much difficulty.

Evidently the young men knew what they were doing. Ish did not bother to

ask questions because he needed all his strength merely to keep moving.

They waited for him patiently, and often they helped him, letting him rest

his arms across their shoulders. Toward evening, when his strength was

failing, they made camp near a stream. Because of some freak of the wind

and also because of the greater growth there, the fire had left a small

spot unburned.

A little water was running in the stream-bed. The larger game all seemed to

have run before the flames, but many quail and rabbits had taken shelter

along the stream-bed, and the young men, scattering with their bows, soon

came back with plenty of food.

One of them, apparently out of mere habit, began to make a fire with a

bow-drill. But the others laughed at him, and soon gathered together some

still glowing and smouldering sticks from where the fire had swept through.

After he had eaten a little and felt stronger, Ish looked around, and saw

by the gutted ruins of a great building that they had camped on what had

long ago been the campus of the University. Though he was still tired, he

stood up curiously, and made out the shape of the Library a hundred yards

or so distant. The trees around it had burned, but the building itself was

still intact. Nearly all of its volumes, the whole record of mankind, would

probably be still available. *Available for whom?* Ish did not try to

answer the question that rose so spontaneously in his mind. In some way,

the rules of the game had changed. He would not say whether they had

changed for better or for worse. In any case, the Library--its preservation

or its destruction--seemed to make very little difference in his thoughts

now. Perhaps, this was the wisdom of old age. Perhaps, it was only despair

and resignation.

"This will be a strange place for me to sleep tonight," Ish thought. "Will

the ghosts of my old professors move before me after all these years? Will

I dream of a million books passing in endless procession, looking

reproachfully upon me because after so long I have begun to have doubts in

them and all they stood for?"

That night, however, though he often woke and was cold and envied the young

men sleeping soundly, yet between times of waking he slept well and had no

dreams, because he was very tired from all that had happened during the

day.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Chapter 3*

In the dawn, when he awoke finally, he was weak but clear-headed.

"This is very strange," he thought, "because in the last few years I know

that frequently I have not been wholly conscious of what was happening, and

that is the way a very old man often is. But now, as it was yesterday, I

see everything very clearly. I wonder what this can mean?"

He watched the young men making breakfast ready. That same one was

whistling gaily at the same tune, and again it brought to Ish the thought

of little bells and happiness, although he could not remember its name. But

still his mind was clear--"clear as a bell," the old words came to him,

since the idea of bells was already with him.

"I have heard," he thought, putting the thoughts into silent sentences, as

he had always had a habit of doing, and now as an old man was more prone

than ever to do. "Yes, I have heard, or more likely I have read it in one

of all those books--at least, from somewhere I have got the idea that a

man's mind becomes clear just before he is to die. Well, I am very old, and

it is likely enough, and nothing certainly to be unhappy about. If I were a

Catholic now and if things were different, I should wish to confess."

Then by the little stream, with the smell of smoke still in his nostrils

and with the old University buildings looming up around him, he thought for

a moment of his life, and considered what he had piled up of sins and of

virtues. For he realized that a man should make peace with himself, even

though all conditions changed, and that a man should face the question of

whether in his life he had satisfied the ideas which he had built up within

himself as to what he should be, and that all this was not a matter of

priests and religion but of a man himself.

After he had considered his life, he did not feel perturbed. He had made

mistakes, but also he had sometimes done the right thing, as always--or at

least in general--he had tried to do. The Great Disaster had placed him in a

position for which he had no training; still he had accomplished certain

things, and had lived, he trusted, not altogether ignobly.

Just then one of them brought him a morsel of something that had been

roasted on a stick before the fire.

"This is for you," said the young man. "It is the breast of a quail as you

yourself, Ish, well know."

Ish thanked him politely, and chewed at the meat, being glad that he had

teeth left. The smoky tang of the open fire was in the meat, and the taste

was delicious.

"Why should I consider dying?" he thought. "Life is still good, and I am

the last American."

But he did not bother to comment on anything that was happening or to ask

questions as to what they would do that day. He felt in some strange way

drawn from the world, although he was still so fully conscious of it.

After breakfast there came a shouting from farther down the stream, and

soon a newcomer arrived. There was a long talk then, but Ish did not pay

much attention. He gathered, in general, that the whole tribe was moving

toward a place where there were some lakes and where the fire had not

swept. It was very good country, according to what the newcomer said. The

three young men who had been with Ish were at first inclined to argue about

this, because they had not been consulted in the decision. But the other

explained that the whole question had been put up before the assembly of

The Tribe, and so decided. The three then yielded, granting that what The

Tribe had decided was binding upon them also.

Though this was doubtless a very small incident, Ish found it particularly

gratifying. That was something which he had taught them long ago. But the

thought, though it was pleasant, also brought him sorrow and even

embarrassment when he remembered Charlie.

Soon they made preparations to begin the march, but Ish was so weak that he

could hardly walk at all. The young men then decided that they would carry

him pickaback by turns, and so they started. Carrying him, they managed to

move more rapidly than they had moved on the preceding day when he had

walked. They made jokes, one with another, about how light an old man grew

to be--happy jokes with a lusty vein running through them, as to why an old

man was so light. But Ish at least was glad that he was no great burden

upon them; in fact, one of them said that to carry the hammer was as heavy

a load as to carry Ish himself.

Once they were moving in this fashion, perhaps the joggling of being

carried pickaback affected Ish, and he found the fog again creeping in upon

his brain. He did not even know just where they were going or in what

direction they were moving. Only, now and then, some incident stood out

clearly before him.

After a while they passed out of the burned area, and came to a part of the

city past which the fire had swept, leaving it uninjured. From the dampness

in the air which made him shiver a little Ish realized that the wind had

changed and that this area must be close to the Bay. There were ruins of

factory buildings in this section. Once he noticed the paralleled rust

lines of a railroad track. Everything was much grown up with bushes and

some tall trees, but the long dry summers had prevented the country from

returning to forest, and so there was always a good deal of grassy expanse

through which the young men had no difficulty in finding a way. Often,

moreover, they Ilowed the actual lines of streets where the asphalt still

showed in places, in spite of the weeds growing up through its cracks and

the grass encroaching upon its sides where the blown dust of all these

years had supplied a skin of soil to the surface. But generally the young

men seemed to steer more by the position of the sun or by some distant

landmark than to make their way along the lines of streets.

As they were passing a thicket, something caught Ish's eye, and he reached

out his hand and cried for it, suddenly, as a child might. The young men

saw what he was doing. They stopped, laughing merrily, to humor him. One of

them went to get the thing for which he had cried out. When they brought

it, Ish was delighted, and now they laughed at him as if he really were a

child, good-naturedly.

Ish did not mind. He had what he wanted. It was a scarlet flower--a

geranium, which had adapted itself to the new life and lived through these

years. It was not the flower but the color, Ish realized, that had given

him that sudden pang and made him cry out. There was not enough red in the

world anymore. Being old, he could remember a world in which dyes and

lights flamed with scarlet and vermilion. But now the world had sunk back

into a quiet harmony of blues and greens and browns--and reds no longer

blazed everywhere.

But as he jogged along pickaback, he lost the sense of what was happening,

and when he came to himself again, they were all seated on the ground

taking a rest, and somewhere he had dropped the flower. Now, as he looked

up, his eyes saw something a little distance away, and when he focused, he

saw that it was a road-marker. It was shield-shaped, and he read U.S. and

CALIFORNIA, and in large numerals, 4 and 0. He was so unused to seeing

numerals that it was a moment before he could put the two together and form

on his tongue the word "Forty."

"This, then," he thought, "this road which I can barely make out because of

all the things growing on it, this is old U.S. 40--the East Shore Highway.

It used to be six lanes wide. We must be heading toward the Bay Bridge."

And then again he did not remember clearly anything more.

There was still another incident of that morning's march which came to him

clearly out of the dimness of the fog pressing in around him. Again they

had halted, but this time they were not sitting. The young man called Jack

was carrying him at this moment, and as Ish looked out over Jack's left

shoulder, he saw the one with the spear right in front of them; one on each

side, stood the two other young men, each with his bow half-drawn and an

arrow nocked ready on the string. The two dogs crouched at heel, and they

were growling deeply. Then, looking farther on, Ish saw a huge

mountain-lion in the path.

The lion crouched, threatening, on one side. And on the other side, the men

and dogs stood their ground. Thus they remained for perhaps a dozen

breaths.

Then the one with the spear said, "He is not going to spring." He spoke

quietly and in a matter-of-fact voice.

"Shall I shoot?" said one of the others.

"Don't be a fool!" said the one with the spear, calmly.

They all went back a little way, and made a detour off to the right, making

the dogs keep close at heel, so that they would not rush off and alarm or

disturb the lion. In this way they went around the lion, leaving him

possession of the direct way, but avoiding trouble. Ish wondered greatly

about all this. As far as he could see the men were not afraid of the beast

but were merely avoiding trouble, and on the other hand the beast did not

seem to be afraid of the men. Perhaps it was because there were no more

rifles being used, or perhaps it was because there were so few men that a

lion rarely saw one and could not realize how dangerous these not very

dangerous-looking creatures could be. Or perhaps, if the young men had not

been encumbered with a helpless old one, they might have attacked.

Yet certainly he could not help thinking that the men had lost that old

dominance and the arrogance with which they had once viewed the animals,

and were now acting more or less as equals with them. He felt that this was

too bad, and yet the young men were going along just as unconcerned as

ever, cracking their little jokes and not feeling that they had been at all

humiliated by having to detour the lion, any more than if they had had to

detour around a fallen tree-trunk or a ruined building.

When he next began to pay attention, they were approaching the bridge. Ish

became interested, and again he wished that he could tell the young men

something of the Old Times, of what the bridge used to be like when traffic

was pouring across it in both directions and all six lanes were so full of

whizzing cars that you could not have run from one side to the other and

remained alive.

Now, however, as they slowly walked up the long approach and came to the

first span on the East Bay side, Ish could see that the bridge as a whole,

though rust-covered, was still intact. The pavement, however, was badly

gone to pieces, and whole sections of the highway sagged a little, and some

of the towers were noticeably out of line.

At one place they had to walk for a few feet across a single girder which

offered the only passageway. Looking down from the young man's back, Ish

could see clear down to where the waves were slushing back and forth, and

he noticed that the metal of the bridge, where salt water had splashed on

it for all these years, was deeply corroded, and sagging and breaking.

*This is the road that no man finishes traveling. This is the river so long

that no vovager finds the sea. This is the path winding among the hills,

and still winding. This is the bridge that no man crosses wholly--lucky is

he who through the mists and rain clouds sees, or even believes he dimly

sees, the farther shore. *

After that, Ish was not sure of anything again until at last he realized

that he was sitting on something hard and leaning against something hard,

and that his feet were very cold. Next he knew that somebody was chafing

his hands, and then slowly he came into consciousness.

He found that he was sitting on the pavement at the edge of the bridge,

propped against the railing. The first thing that he really noticed was his

hammer on the pavement in front of him, the handle pointing stiffly in the

air. On each side of him, a young man was chafing one of his hands, as if

trying to get some blood back into them. The other two young men were near

also, and they all seemed greatly disturbed.

Ish realized that his feet and even his lower legs were cold, or perhaps

they had really lost all feeling in a kind of cold that might be called

deathly. He knew then, his mind again becoming clearer, that he had not

been merely passing through one of his lapses of old age but that he must

actually have suffered some kind of seizure--a stroke or a heart attack--and

that the others were frightened.

He saw Jack moving his lips as if he were talking, and yet making no noise.

A strange thing to do! The lips moved more and more vigorously, as if Jack

were shouting. Then Ish realized that he himself was not hearing. This

thought did not pain him, but rather pleased him, because he knew that he

would now not have the world press in upon him, as it must always upon a

man who can hear.

The others began talking, that is, moving their lips in the same way, and

Ish saw that they were trying definitely, even desperately, to tell him

something. He shook his head, puzzled. Then he tried to tell them that he

could not hear, but he realized that he did not have control over his

speech. This disturbed him, for he realized that it would be a nuisance to

live in the world when he could not communicate by talking and when nobody

could understand what he wrote.

The young men had been very respectful and friendly all day. But now they

became irritated. They gesticulated, and Ish could see they were insistent

that he should do something, and were even frightened that he might not be

able to do it. They made gestures toward the hammer, but Ish did not feel

it worthwhile to try very hard to understand.

Soon, however, the young men were even more insistent, and then they began

to pinch him. Ish felt the pain because his body was still sensitive, and

he cried out, and tears even came to his eyes, though he was ashamed of

that, and felt that it was not fitting for the last American.

"It is a strange thing," he thought, "to be an old god. They worship you,

and yet they mistreat you. If you do not want to do what they wish, they

make you. It is not fair."

Then, by thinking hard and by watching their gestures, he thought that they

wanted him to indicate one of them to whom the hammer should be given. The

hammer had been Ish's own for a long time, and no one had ever suggested

that he should give it to anyone else, but he did not care, besides he

wished them to stop pinching him. He could still move his arms, and so with

a gesture he indicated that the young man called Jack should have the

hammer.

Jack picked up the hammer, and stood with it dangling from his right hand.

The other three then drew off a little, and Ish felt within himself a

strange pang of sorrow for the young man to whom the hammer had descended.

But at least they all seemed to be relieved, now that the inheritance of

the hammer was settled, and they did not bother Ish any more.

He rested there quietly then, as if he had done all in this world that he

needed to do, and had made his peace. He was dying on the bridge, and he

knew it now. Many others, he remembered, had died on that bridge. He might

have died there many years before in some mere crash of automobiles. Now he

had lived clear out of his own world, and still he was dying there. One way

or another, he now was contented. He half-remembered a line which he had

read in some book at some time during all those years when he had read so

many books. "Men go and come..." But that was trite and meaningless without

its other half.

He looked now at the others, although there was a little mist before his

eyes and he could not see very well. Yet he noticed the two dogs lying

quietly, and the four young men--three of them apart from the other one

now--who squatted on the bridge in a half circle around him, watching. They

were very young in age, at least by comparison with him, and in the cycle

of mankind they were many thousands of years younger than he. He was the

last of the old; they were the first of the new. But whether the new would

follow the course which the old had followed, that he did not know, and now

at last he was almost certain that he did not even desire that the cycle

should be repeated. He suddenly thought of all that had gone to build

civilization--of slavery and conquest and war and oppression.

But now he looked beyond the young men, toward the bridge itself. Now that

he would soon be dead, he felt himself more a companion of the bridge than

of the men. It too had been part of civilization.

A little distance off, he was surprised to see a car standing, or what was

left of a car. Then he remembered the little coupé which had been parked

there during all those years. Now the paint had weathered off almost

entirely; not only were the tires flat but also the springs had grown weak,

so that the whole car had settled downwards. All its upper parts were white

with bird-droppings. Curiously, although it was a matter of no importance,

he could still remember that the owner of the car had been John Robertson

(with a middle initial which was E. or T. or P., or something like that)

and that he had lived on one of the numbered streets in Oakland.

But Ish let his gaze rest upon the little coupé only for a moment. Then his

eyes moved higher, and he saw the tall towers and the great cables, still

dipping in perfect curves. This part of the bridge seemed to be in a good

state of preservation. It would apparently stand for a long time still,

perhaps during the lives of many generations of men. The railings, the

towers, and the cables--all were rusted red. But he knew that that rust must

be superficial. The tops of the towers, however, were not red, but were

shining white with the droppings of generations of seagulls.

Yet though the bridge might last still for many years, the rust would eat

deeper and deeper. The earthquake would shake the foundations, and then on

some stormy day a span would go down. Like the man, so the creation of man

would not last forever.

He shut his eyes for a moment, and imagined the whole sweep of the hills

around the bay, though he could not turn his head to see them. They had not

changed their profile since the destruction of civilization; as measured by

man's time, they would not change. As far as the bay and the hills went, he

was still dying in the same world to which he had been born.

Opening his eyes, he now looked and was able to see the two pointed peaks

at the crest of the ridge. "Twin Breasts" they had once been called, and

the sight of them made him think of Em, and even further back, of his own

mother. The earth and Em and the mother all mingled in his dying mind, and

he felt glad to return.

"But, no," he thought, after a moment, "I must die as I have lived--by the

light of my own mind, by what light it gives me. Those hills, though they

may take the shape of breasts, they are not like Em or like my mother. They

will receive me--they will receive my body--but they will not love me. They

do not care. And also I am one who has studied the ways of the earth, and I

know that the hills themselves, though men call them eternal--they too are

changing always. "

Yet as a weary and dying old man, he needed something toward which he could

look and from which he could expect no change. He was cold now around the

waist, and his fingers were numb. His sight was fading.

He fixed his eyes on the distant hills. He had tried very hard. He had

struggled. He had looked to the past and to the future. What did it matter?

What had he accomplished?

Now certainly it made no difference. He would rest, and he would return to

the hills. And they--in comparison at least with the passing of man's

generations--remained without changing. And if the shape of the hills was

like the shape of a woman's breasts, perhaps that too was not without its

meaning and comfort.

Then, though his sight was now very dim, he looked again at the young men.

"They will commit me to the earth," he thought. "Yet I also commit them to

the earth. There is nothing else by which men live. *Men go and come, but

earth abides.*"