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 hismother.
It was good to walk again. It was good to leap up out of the earth, offof your back, and stretch your cramped arms violently and try to take adeep breath!
He tried. He cried out.
He couldn't breathe. He flung his arms over his face and tried tobreathe. It was impossible. He walked on the earth, he came out of theearth. But he was dead. He couldn't breathe. He could take air intohis mouth and force it half down his throat, with withered moves oflong-dormant muscles, wildly, wildly! And with this little air hecould shout and cry! He wanted to have tears, but he couldn't make themcome, either. All he knew was that he was standing upright, he wasdead, 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 tosmell the smells of autumn. Autumn was burning the land down into ruin.All across the country the ruins of summer lay; vast forests bloomedwith flame, tumbled down timber on empty, unleafed timber. The smoke ofthe burning was rich, blue, and invisible.
He stood in the graveyard, hating. He walked through the world and yetcould not taste nor smell of it. He heard, yes. The wind roared onhis newly opened ears. But he was dead. Even though he walked he knewhe was dead and should expect not too much of himself or this hatefulliving world.
He touched the tombstone over his own empty grave. He knew his own nameagain. It was a good job of carving.
WILLIAM LANTRY
That's what the grave stone said.
His fingers trembled on the cool stone surface.
BORN 1898—DIED 1933
Born again...?
What year? He glared at the sky and the midnight autumnal stars movingin slow illuminations across the windy black. He read the tiltings ofcenturies in those stars. Orion thus and so, Aurega here! and whereTaurus? There!
His eyes narrowed. His lips spelled out the year:
"2349."
An odd number. Like a school sum. They used to say a man couldn'tencompass any number over a hundred. After that it was all so damnedabstract there was no use counting. This was the year 2349! A numeral,a sum. And here he was, a man who had lain in his hateful dark coffin,hating to be buried, hating the living people above who lived and livedand lived, hating them for all the centuries, until today, now, bornout of hatred, he stood by his own freshly excavated grave, the smellof raw earth in the air, perhaps, but he could not smell it!
"I," he said, addressing a poplar tree that was shaken by the wind, "aman anachronism." He smiled faintly.
He looked at the graveyard. It was cold and empty. All of the stoneshad been ripped up and piled like so many flat bricks, one atopanother, in the far corner by the wrought iron fence. This had beengoing on for two endless weeks. In his deep secret coffin he had heardthe heartless, wild stirring as the men jabbed the earth with coldspades and tore out the coffins and carried away the withered ancientbodies to be burned. Twisting with fear in his coffin, he had waitedfor them to come to him.
Today they had arrived at his coffin. But—late. They had dug down towithin an inch of the lid. Fi