We cannot tell you what kind of a story this
is. We simply cannot present it as we present
other stories. It is too tremendous for that.
We are very glad--and proud--to share it with you.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He came out of the earth, hating. Hate was his father; hate was his
mother.
It was good to walk again. It was good to leap up out of the earth, off
of your back, and stretch your cramped arms violently and try to take a
deep breath!
He _tried_. He cried out.
He couldn't breathe. He flung his arms over his face and tried to
breathe. It was impossible. He walked on the earth, he came out of the
earth. But he was dead. He couldn't breathe. He could take air into
his mouth and force it half down his throat, with withered moves of
long-dormant muscles, wildly, wildly! And with this little air he
could shout and cry! He wanted to have tears, but he couldn't make them
come, either. All he knew was that he was standing upright, he was
dead, he shouldn't be walking! He couldn't breathe and yet he stood.
The smells of the world were all about him. Frustratedly, he tried to
smell the smells of autumn. Autumn was burning the land down into ruin.
All across the country the ruins of summer lay; vast forests bloomed
with flame, tumbled down timber on empty, unleafed timber. The smoke of
the burning was rich, blue, and invisible.
He stood in the graveyard, hating. He walked through the world and yet
could not taste nor smell of it. He heard, yes. The wind roared on
his newly opened ears. But he was dead. Even though he walked he knew
he was dead and should expect not too much of himself or this hateful
living world.
He touched the tombstone over his own empty grave. He knew his own name
again. It was a good job of carving.