Citizen and Citizeness Roget Germyn walked down Pine Street in the
chill and dusk of--one hoped--a Sun Re-creation Morning.
It was the convention to pretend that this was a morning like any other
morning. It was not proper either to cast frequent hopeful glances at
the sky, nor yet to seem disturbed or afraid because this was, after
all, the forty-first such morning since those whose specialty was Sky
Viewing had come to believe the Re-creation of the Sun was near.
The Citizen and his Citizeness exchanged the assurance-of-identity
sign with a few old friends and stopped to converse. This also was a
convention of skill divorced from purpose. The conversation was without
relevance to anything that any one of the participants might know, or
think, or wish to ask.
Germyn said for his friends a twenty-word poem he had made in honor
of the occasion and heard their responses. They did line-capping for
a while--until somebody indicated unhappiness and a wish to change by
frowning the Two Grooves between his brows. The game was deftly ended
with an improvised rhymed exchange.
Casually, Citizen Germyn glanced aloft. The sky-change had not begun
yet; the dying old Sun hung just over the horizon, east and south, much
more south than east. It was an ugly thought, but suppose, thought
Germyn, just _suppose_ that the Sun were not re-created today? Or
tomorrow. Or--
Or ever.
The Citizen got a grip on himself and told his wife: "We shall dine at
the oatmeal stall."
The Citizeness did not immediately reply. When Germyn glanced at her
with well-masked surprise, he found her almost staring down the dim
street at a Citizen who moved almost in a stride, almost swinging his
arms. Scarcely graceful.
"That might be more Wolf than man," she said doubtfully.
Germyn knew the fellow. Tropile was his name. One of those curious few
who made their homes outside of Wheeling, though they were not farmers.
Germyn had had banking dealings with him--or would have had, if it had
been up to Tropile.
"That is a careless man," he decided, "and an ill-bred one."
They moved toward the oatmeal stall with the gait of Citizens, arms
limp, feet scarcely lifted, slumped forward a little. It was the
ancient gait of fifteen hundred calories per day, not one of which
could be squandered.
* * * * *
There was a need for more calories. So many for walking, so many for
gathering food. So many for the economical pleasures of the Citizens,
so many more--oh, many more, these days!--to keep out the cold. Yet
there were no more calories; the diet the whole world lived on was a
bare subsistence diet.
It was impossible to farm well when half the world's land was part
of the time drowned in the rising sea, part of the time smothered in
falling snow.
Citizens knew this and, knowing, did not struggle--it was ungraceful
to struggle, particularly when one could not win. Only--well, Wolves
struggled, wasting calories, lacking grace.
Citizen Germyn turned his mind to more pleasant things.
He allowed himself his First Foretaste of the oatmeal. It would be
warm in the bowl, hot in the throat, a comfort in the belly. There was
a great deal of pleasure there, in weather like this, when the cold
plucked through the loosened seams and the wind came up the sides of
the hills. Not that there wasn't pleasure in the cold itself, for that
matter. It was proper that one should be cold now, just before the
re-creation of the Sun, when the old Sun was smoky-red and the new one
not yet kindled.
"--still looks like Wolf to me," his wife was muttering.
"Cadence," Germyn reproved his Citizeness, but took the sting out of it
with a Quirked Smile.
The man with the ugly manners was standing at the very bar of the
oatmeal stall where they were heading. In the gloom of mid-morning, he
was all angles and strained lines. His head was turned awkwardly on
his shoulder, peering toward the back of the stall where the vendor
was rhythmically measuring grain into a pot. His hands were resting
helter-skelter on the counter, not hanging by his sides.
Citizen Germyn felt a faint shudder from his wife. But he did not
reprove her again, for who could blame her? The exhibition was
revolting.