 BREAD OVERHEAD by Fritz Lieber This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Corey Samuel As a blisteringly hot but guaranteed weather controlled future summer day dawned on the Mississippi Valley, the walking mills of puffy products, spike to loaf in one operation, began to tread delicately on their centipede legs across the wheat fields of Kansas. The walking mills resembled fat metal serpents, rather larger than those Chinese paper dragons animated by files of men in procession. Sensory robot devices in their noses informed them that the waiting wheat had reached ripe perfection. As they advanced, their heads swung lazily from side to side, very much like snakes, gobbling the yellow grain. In their throats it was threshed, the chaff bundled and burped aside for pick-up by the crawl-trucks of a chemical corporation. The kernels quick-dried and blown along into the mighty chests of the machines. There the tireless mills ground the kernels to flour, which was instantly sifted, the bran being packaged, and dropped like the chaff for pick-up. A cluster of tanks, which gave the metal serpents a decidedly hump-backed appearance, added water, shortening, salt, and some other ingredients, some named and some not. The dough was at the same time infused with gas from a tank conspicuously labelled carbon dioxide, no yeast-creatures in your bread. Thus instantly risen the dough was clipped into loaves and shot into radionic ovens, forming the mid-sections of the metal serpents. There the bread was baked in a matter of seconds, a fierce heat-front browning the crusts, and the piping-hot loaves sealed in transparent plastic, bearing the proud puffy loaf emblem, two cherubs circling a floating loaf, and ejected onto the delivery-platform at each serpents' rear end, where a cluster of pick-up machines, like hungry piglets, snatched at the loaves with hygienic claws. A few loaves would be hurried off for the day's consumption, the majority stored for winter in strategically located mammoth deep-freezes. But now, behold a wonder! As loaves began to appear on the delivery-platform of the first walking meal to get into action, they did not linger on the conveyor-belt, but rose gently into the air, and slowly travelled off downwind across the hot, rippling fields. The robot claws of the pick-up machines clutched in vain, and to not noticing the difference, proceeded carefully to stack emptiness, tier by tier. One errant loaf, rising more sluggishly than its fellows, was snagged by a thrusting floor. The machine paused, clumsily wiped off the injured loaf, set it aside, where it bobbed on one corner, unable to take off again, and went back to the work of storing nothingness. A flock of crows rose from the trees of a nearby shelter-belt, as the flight of loaves approached. The crows swooped to investigate, and then suddenly scattered, screeching in panic. The helicopter of a hangoverish Sunday traveller, bound for Wichita, tried very similarly from the brown flyers, and did not return for a second look. A black-haired housewife spied them over her back fence, crossed herself, and grabbed her walkie-talkie from the laundry-basket. Seconds later, the yawning correspondent of a regional newspaper was jotting down the lead of a humorous news-story, which, recalling the old flying saucer-scares, stated that now, apparently, bread was to be included in a mad aerial tea-party. The congregation of an open-walled country church, standing up to recite the most familiar of Christian prayers, had just reached the petition for daily sustenance, when a sub-flight of the loaves, either forced down by a vagrant wind, or lacking the natural buoyancy of the rest, came coasting silently as the sunbeams between the graceful pillars at the altar end of the building. Meanwhile, the main flight, now augmented by other bread-blocks from scores and hundreds of walking mills that had started work a little later, mounted slowly and majestically into the cirrus-flect upper air, where a steady wind was blowing strongly toward the east. About one thousand miles further on in that direction, where a cluster of stratosphere-tickling towers marked the location of the metropolis of New New York, a tender scene was being enacted in the pressurized penthouse managerial suite of puffy products. McGara Winterly, secretary-in-chief to the managerial board, and referred to by her underlings as the Blonde Icicle, was dealing with the advances of Roger, Racehorse, Snedden, assistant secretary to the board, and often indistinguishable from any passing office boy. Why don't you jump out the window, Roger, remembering to shut the airlock after you? The Golden Glacier said in tones not unkind. When are your high-strung thoroughbred nerves going to accept the fact that I would never consider marriage with a business inferior? You have about as much chance as a starving Ukrainian Kulak, now that Moscow's clapped on the interdict. Roger's voice was calm, although his eyes were feverishly bright, as he replied. A lot of things are going to be different round here, Meg, as soon as the board is forced to admit that only my quick thinking made it possible to bring the name of Puffyloaf in front of the whole world. Puffyloaf could do with a little of that, the business girl observed judiciously. The way sales have been plummeting, it won't be long before the government deeds our desks to the managers of fairy bread and asks us to take the big jump. But just where does your quick thinking come into this, Mr. Snedden? You can't be referring to the helium. That was Rose Thinker's brainwave. She studied him suspiciously. You've birthed another promotional bumble, Roger. I can see it in your eyes. I only hope it's not as big a one as when you put the Martian ambassador on 3D, and he thanked you profusely for the growth of Puffyloaf's, assuring you that he'd never slept on a softer mattress in all his life on two planets. Listen to me, Meg. Today. Yes. Today. You're going to see the board eating out of my hand. Ha! I guarantee you won't have any fingers left. You're bold enough now, but when Mr. Grice and those two big machines come through that door—now wait a minute, Meg. Hush! They're coming now! Roger leaped three feet in the air, but managed to land without a sound and edged toward his stool. Through the dilating iris of the door strode the finiest T. Grice, flanked by Rose Thinker and Tin Philosopher. The man approached the conference table in the centre of the room, with measured pace and gravely expressionless face. The rose-tinted machine on his left did a couple of impulsive pirouettes on the way, and tweeted a greeting to Meg and Roger. The other machine quietly took the third of the high seats, and lifted a claw at Meg, who now occupied a stool twice the height of Roger's. Miss Winterly, please, our theme. The blond icicles' face thawed into a little girl's smile, as she chanted bubblingly. Made up of tiny, wheaten motes, and reinforced with sturdy oats, it rises through the air and floats, the bread on which all terror dotes. Thank you, Miss Winterly, said Tin Philosopher. Though a purely figurative statement, that bit about rising through the air always gets me here. He rapped his midsection, which gave off a high musical clang. Ladies. He inclined his photo-cells toward Rose Thinker and Meg, and gentlemen. This is a historic occasion in Old Puffy's long history, the inauguration of the helium-filled loaf, so light it almost floats away. In which that inert and heaven-inspiring gas replaces old-fashioned carbon dioxide. Later there will be kudos for Rose Thinker, whose bright relays genius-spucked the idea, and also for Roger Snidden, who took care of the details. By the by, race-horse, that was a brilliant bit of work getting the helium out of the government. They've been pretty stuffy lately about their monopoly. But first I want to throw wide the casement in your minds that opens on the long view of things. Rose Thinker spun twice on her chair, and opened her photo-cells wide. Tin philosopher coughed to limber up the diaphragm of his speaker, and continued. Ever since the first cave-wife boasted to her next-in-neighbour about the superior paleness and fluffiness of her tortillas, mankind has sought lighter, whiter bread. Indeed, Thinker's wiser than myself have equated the whole upward course of culture with this poignant quest. Yeast was a wonderful discovery for its primitive day. Sifting the bran and wheat germ from the flour was an even more important advance. Early bleaching and preserving chemicals played their humble parts. For a while barbarous faddists blinded to the deeply spiritual nature of bread which is recognised by all great religions. Held back are marched toward perfection, with their hair-splitting insistence on the vitamin content of the wheat germ. But their case collapsed when tasteless, colourless substitutes were triumphantly synthesised and introduced into the loaf, which for flawless purity, unequalled airiness and sheer intangible goodness was rapidly becoming mankind's supreme gustatory experience. I wonder what the stuff tastes like, Rose Thinker said, out of a clear sky. I wonder what taste tastes like. Tin philosopher echoed dreamily. Recovering himself, he continued. Then, early in the twenty-first century, came the epochal researches of Everett Whitehead, Puffilove chemist, culminating in his paper, the structural bubble in cereal masses, and making possible the baking of airtight bread twenty times stronger, for its weight, than steel, and of a lightness that would have been incredible even to the advanced chemist bakers of the twentieth century. A lightness so great that, besides forming the backbone of our own promotion, it has forever since been capitalised on by our conscienceless competitors of fairy bread, with their enduring slogan, it makes ghosts toast. That's a beautiful right, that ectodo blurb, Rose Thinker admitted, bugging her photocells sadly. Wait a sec, how about— there'll be bread, overhead, when you're dead, it is said. Phineas T. Grice wrinkled his nostrils at the pink machine, as if he smelled her insulation smouldering. He said mildly, somewhat unhappy jingle, Rose, referring as it does to the end of the customer as consumer. Moreover, we shouldn't overplay the figurative rises through the air angle. What inspired you? She shrugged, I don't know. Oh, yes I do. I was remembering one of the workers' songs we machines used to chant during the big strike. Work and pray, live on hay, you'll get pie in the sky when you die, it's a lie. I don't know why we chanted it, she added. We didn't want pie, or hay for that matter. And machines don't pray, except Tibetan prayer wheels. Phineas T. Grice shook his head. Labor relations are another topic we should stay far away from. However, dear Rose, I'm glad you keep trying to out jingle those dirty crooks at Fairy Bread. He scowled, turning back his attention to tin philosopher. I get whopping mad, old machine, whenever I hear that other slogan of theirs, the discriminatory one, untouched by robot claws, just because they employ a few filthy androids in their factories. Tin philosopher lifted one of his own sets of bright talons. Thanks, P.T., but to continue my historical resume. The next great advance in the baking art was the substitution of purified carbon dioxide recovered from coal smoke for the gas generated by yeast organisms indwelling in the dough and later killed by the heat of baking, their corpses remaining in situ. But even purified carbon dioxide is itself a rather repugnant gas, a product of metabolism, whether fast or slow, and forever associated with those life processes which are obnoxious to the fastidious. Here the machine shuddered with delicate clinkings. Therefore, we of Puffyloaf are taking to-day what may be the ultimate step toward purity. We are aerating our loaves with a noble gas helium, an element which remains virginal in the face of all chemical temptations, and whose slim molecules are eleven times lighter than a beast's carbon dioxide. Yes, noble, uncontaminable helium, which, if it be a kind of ash, is yet the ash only of radioactive burning, accomplished or initiated entirely on the sun, a safe ninety-three million miles from this planet. Let's have a cheer for the helium loaf. Without changing expression, Phineas T. Grice wrapped the table thrice in solemn applause while the others bowed their heads. Thanks, T.P., P.T. then said. And now for the moment of truth. Miss Winterly, how is the helium loaf selling? The business girl clapped on a pair of earphones and whispered into a lapel mic. Her gaze grew abstracted as she mentally translated flurries of brief squawks into coherent messages. Suddenly a single vertical furrow creased her matchlessly smooth brow. It isn't, Mr. Grice, she gasped in horror. Fairy bread is outselling puffy loaves by an infinity factor. So far this morning there has not been one single delivery of puffy loaves to any sales spot. Complaints about non-delivery are pouring in from both walking stores and sassile shops. Mr. Sneddon, Grice barked, what bug in the new helium process might account for this delay? Roger was on his feet, looking bewildered. I can't imagine, sir, unless, just possibly, there's been some unforeseeable difficulty involving the new metal foil wrappers. Metal foil wrappers? Were you responsible for those? Yes, sir. Last-minute recalculations showed that the extra lightness of the new loaf might be great enough to cause drift during stackage. Drafts and stores might topple sales pyramids. Metal foil wrappers, by their added weight, took care of the difficulty. And you ordered them without consulting the board? Yes, sir. There was hardly time and—why you fool!—I noticed that order for metal foil wrappers, assumed it was some sub-secretary's mistake, and cancelled it last night. Roger Sneddon turned pale. You cancelled it, he quavered, and told them to go back to the lighter plastic wrappers? Of course! Just what is behind all this, Mr. Sneddon? What recalculations were you trusting, when our physicists had demonstrated months ago that the helium loaf was safely stackable in light airs and gentle breezes, winds up to Beaufort's scale three? Why should a change from heavier to lighter wrappers result in complete non-delivery? Roger Sneddon's paleness became tinged with an interesting green. He cleared his throat and made strange gulping noises. Tin philosophers' photocells focused on him calmly, rose thinkers, with unfaithful excitement. Petey Grice's frown grew blacker by the moment, while McGeara Winterly's Venus Mask showed an odd dawning of dismay and awe. She was getting new squawks in her earphones. Uh. Ah. Uh. Roger Sneddon in winning tones. Well, you see, the fact is that I—hold it! Meg interrupted crisply. Triple urgent from Public Relations Safety Division. Tulsa Topeka Aero Express makes emergency landing, after being buffeted in encounter with vast flight of objects, first described as brown birds, although no failure is reported in airways' electronic anti-bird fences. After grounding safely near Emporia, no fatalities, Pilots' windshield found thinly plastered with soft, whitened brown material. Emblems on plastic wrappers embedded in material identified incontrovertibly as an undetermined number of puffy loaves cruising at three thousand feet. Eyes and photocells turned inquisitorially upon Roger Sneddon. He went from green to puffy loaf white, and blurted. All right, I did it, but it was the only way out! Yesterday morning, due to the Ukrainian crisis, the government stopped sales and deliveries of all strategic stockpiled materials, including helium gas. Puffy's new programme of advertising and promotion, based on the lighter loaf, was already rolling. There was only one thing to do—there being only one other gas comparable in lightness to helium. I diverted the necessary quantity of hydrogen gas from the hydrogenated oil section of our Magna Margerine Division, and substituted it for the helium. You substituted hydrogen for the helium. Phineas T. Grice faltered in low mechanical tones, taking four steps backward. Hydrogen is twice as light as helium, tin philosopher remarked judiciously. And many times cheaper, did you know that? Roger countered feebly. Yes, I substituted hydrogen. The metal foil wrapping would have added just enough weight to counteract the great buoyancy of the hydrogen loaf. But, so when this morning's loaves began to arrive on the delivery platforms of the walking mills, tin philosopher left the remark unfinished. Exactly, Roger agreed dismally. Let me ask you, Mr. Sneddon, Grice interjected, still in low tones. If you expected people to jump to the kitchen ceiling for their puffy bread after taking off the metal wrapper, or reach for the sky if they happen to unwrap the stuff outdoors. Mr. Grice, Roger said reproachfully, you have often assured me that what people do with puffy bread after they buy it is no concern of ours. I seem to recall, Rose Thinker chirped, somewhat unkindly. That dictum was created to answer inquiries, after Roger put the famous sculptures in miniature artist on 3D, and he testified that he always moulded his first attempts from puffy bread, one jumbo loaf squeezing down to approximately the size of a peanut. Her photo cells dimmed and brightened. Oh boy, hydrogen! The loaf sunwrapped. After a while, in spite of the crust seal, a little oxygen diffuses in. An explosive mixture. Housewife Finn Curles and Kimono pops a couple of slices in the toaster. Boom! The three human beings in the room winced. Tin philosopher kicked her under the table, while observing. So you see, Roger, that the non-delivery of the hydrogen loaf carries some consolations. And I must confess that one aspect of the affair gives me great satisfaction, not as a board member, but as a private machine. You have, at last, made a reality of the rises through the air, part of puffy bread's theme. They can't ever take that away from you. By now, half the inhabitants of the Great Plains must have observed our flying loaves rising high. Finiesty Grice shot a frightened look at the west windows, and found his full voice. Stop the mills! he roared at Meg Wintly, who nodded and whispered urgently into her mic. A sensible suggestion, tin philosopher said. But it comes a trifle late in the day. If the mills are still walking and grinding, approximately seven billion puffy loaves are at this moment cruising eastward over Middle America. Remember that a six-month supply for deep freeze is involved, and that the current consumption of bread, due to its matchless airiness, is eight and one-half loaves per person per day. Finiesty Grice carefully inserted both hands into his scanty hair, feeling for a good grip. He leaned menacingly toward Roger, who, chin resting on the table, regarded him apathetically. Hold it! Meg called sharply. Flock of multiple urgence coming in. News liaison. Information bureaus swamped with flying bread inquiries. Arrow express lines clear our airways or face lawsuit. U.S. Army. Why do loaves flame when hit by incendiary bullets? U.S. Customs. If bread intended for export, get export license or face prosecution. Russian consulate in Chicago. Advise on destination of bread lift. And some Kansas church is accusing us for hoax inciting to blasphemy of faking miracles. I don't know why. The business girl tore off her headphones. Roger snidden. She cried with a hysteria that would have dumbfounded her underlings. You've brought the name of Puffy Lofi in front of the whole world, all right? Now do something about the situation. Roger nodded obediently. But his palate increased a shade. The pupils of his eyes disappeared under the upper lids, and his head burrowed beneath his forearms. Oh, boy! Rose Sinker called Gaely to tin philosopher. This looks like the start of a real crisis session. Did you remember to bring spare batteries? Meanwhile, the monstrous flight of Puffy Loaves, filling midwestern skies as no small flyers had since the days of the passenger pigeon, soared steadily onward. Private flyers approached the brown and glistening bread front in curiosity, and dipped back in awe. Arrow Express lines organized sightseeing flights along the flanks. Plains of the government forestry and agricultural services, and copters bearing the Puffy Loave emblem hovered on the fringes, watching developments and waiting for orders. A squadron of supersonic fighters hung menacingly above. The behaviour of birds varied considerably. Most fled, or gave the loaves a wide berth. But some bolder species, discovering the minimal nutritive nature of the translucent brown objects, attacked them furiously with beaks and claws. Hydrogen, diffusing slowly through the crusts, had now distended most of the sealed plastic wrappers into little balloons, which ruptured when pierced, with disconcerting pops. Below, neck-craning citizens crowded streets and backyards, cranks and cultists had a field day, while local and national governments raged indiscriminately at Puffy Loave and at each other. Rumours that a fusion weapon would be exploded in the midst of the flying bread drew angry protests from conservationists, and a flood of telefax pamphlets titled H. Loave or H. Bomb. Stockholm sent a mystifying note of praise to the United Nations Food Organisation. Delhi issued nervous denials of a millet blight that no one had heard of until that moment, and reaffirmed India's ability to feed her population with no outside help except the usual. Radio Moscow asserted that the Kremlin would brook no interference in its treatment of the Ukrainians, jokingly referred to the flying bread as a fast perpetrated by mad internationalists inhabiting Cloud Cuckoo Land, added contradictory references to airborne bread booby-drapped by capitalist gangsters, and then fell moodily silent on the whole topic. Radio Venus reported to its winged audience that Earth's inhabitants were establishing food depots in the upper air, preparatory to taking up permanent aerial residence, such as we have always enjoyed on Venus. New New York made feverish preparations for the passage of flying bread, tickets for sightseeing space in skyscrapers were sold at high prices. Cold meats and potted spreads were hawked to viewers, with the assurance that they would be able to snag the bread out of the air and enjoy a historic sandwich. Phineas T. Grice, escaping from his own managerial suite, raged about the city, demanding general cooperation in the stretching of great nets between the skyscrapers to trap the errant loaves. He was captured by Tin Philosopher, escaped gain, and was found posted with oxygen mask and submachine gun on the topmost spire of Puffy Loaf Tower, apparently determined to shoot down the loaves as they appeared, and before they involved his company in more trouble with customs and the State Department. Recaptured by Tin Philosopher, who suffered only minor bullet holes, he was given a series of mild electroshocks, and returned to the conference table, calm and clear-headed as ever. But the bread flight, swinging away from a hurricane moving up the Atlantic Coast, crossed a clouded in Boston by night, and disappeared into a high Atlantic overcast, also thereby evading a local storm generated by the Weather Department and last-minute effort to bring down or at least disperse the H Loaves. Warnings and counter-warnings by communist and capitalist governments seriously interfered with military trailing of the flights during this period, and it was actually lost touch with for several days. At scattered points, seagulls were observed fighting over individual loaves, floating down from the grey roof. That was all. A mood of spirituality strongly tinged with humour seized the people of the world. Ministers sermonized about the bread, variously interpreting it as a called charity, a warning against gluttony, a parable of the evanescence of all earthly things, and a divine joke. Husbands and wives, facing each other across their walls of breakfast-toast, burst into laughter. The mere sight of a loaf of bread anywhere was enough to evoke guffaws. An obscure sect, having as part of its creed the injunction, don't take yourself so damn seriously. One new adherence. The bread-flight, rising above an Atlantic storm widely reported to have destroyed it, passed unobserved across a foggy England, and rose out of the overcast only over middle Europa. The loaves had at last reached their maximum altitude. The sun's rays beat through the rarefied air on the distended plastic wrappers, increasing still further the pressure of the confined hydrogen. They burst by the millions and tens of millions. A high-flying Bulgarian evangelist who had happened to mistake the up-lever for the east-lever in the cockpit of his flyer, and who was the sole witness of the event, afterward described it as the foaming of a sea of diamonds, the crackle of God's knuckles. By the millions and tens of millions, the loaves coasted down into the starving Ukraine. Shaken by a week of humour that threatened to invade even its own grim precincts, the Kremlin made a sudden about-face. A new policy was instituted of communal ownership of the produce of communal farms, and teams of hunger-fighters and caravans of trucks loaded with pumpernickel were dispatched into the Ukraine. World distribution was given to a series of photographs showing peasants queuing up the trade scavenged puffy loaves for traditional black bread, recently aerated itself, but still extra-solid by comparison, the rate of exchange demanded by the Moscow teams, being twenty puffy loaves to one of pumpernickel. Another series of photographs, picturing chubby workers' children being blown to bits by booby-trapped bread, was quietly destroyed. Congratulations notes were exchanged by various national governments and world organizations, including the brotherhood of free business machines. The great bread-flight was over, though for several weeks afterward scattered falls of loaves occurred, giving rise to a new folklore of manner among lonely Arabian tribesmen, and in one well-authenticated instance in Tibet, sustaining life in a party of mountaineers cut off by a snow slide. Back in New York, the managerial board of puffy products slumped in utter collapse around the conference table. The long crisis session at last ended. Empty coffee-cartons were scattered around the chairs of the three humans, dead batteries around those of the two machines. For a while there was no movement whatsoever. Then, Roger Sneddon reached out wearily for the earphones, where McGarrar-Winterley had hurled them down, adjusted them to his head, pushed a button, and listened apathetically. After a bit, his gaze brightened. He pushed more buttons, and listened more eagerly. Soon he was sitting tensely upright on his stool, eyes bright, and lower face all a smile, muttering terse comments and questions into the lapel-mike torn from McG's fair neck. The others, reviving, watched him, at first dullly, then with quickening interest, especially when he jerked off the earphones with a happy shout, and sprang to his feet. Listen to this, he cried in a ringing voice. As a result of the worldwide publicity, Puffy Loaves are out selling fairy bread three to one, and that's just the old carbon dioxide stock from our freezers. It's almost exhausted, but the government, now that the Ukrainian crisis is over, has taken the ban off Helium, and will also sell us stockpiled wheat if we need it. We can have our walking mills burrowing into the wheat caves in a matter of hours. But that isn't all. The far greater demand everywhere is for Puffy Loaves that will actually float. Public Relations' child liaison division reports that the kiddies are making their mother's lives miserable about it. If only we can figure out some way to make hydrogen non-explosive, or the helium loaf float just a little. I'm sure we can take care of that quite handily, tin philosopher interrupted briskly. Puffy Loaf has kept it a corporation secret, even you've never been told about it. But just before he went crazy, Everett Whitehead discovered a way to make bread using only half as much flour as we do in the present loaf. Using this secret technique, which we've been saving for just such an emergency, it will be possible to bake a helium loaf, as buoyant in every respect as the hydrogen loaf. Good! Roger cried. We'll tether him on strings and sell him like balloons. No mother-child shopping team will leave the store without a cluster. Buying bread balloons will be the big event of the day for kiddies. It'll make the carry-home shopping load lighter, too. I'll issue orders at once. He broke off, looking at Finneas tea-grize. Said with quiet assurance, Excuse me, sir, if I seem to be taking too much upon myself. Not at all, son. Go straight ahead, the great manager said approvingly. You're—he laughed in anticipation of getting off a memorable remark, rising to the challenging situation like a genuine puffy loaf. Magara Wintly looked from the older man to the younger. Then, in a single leap, she was upon Roger. Her arms wrapped tightly around him. My sweet little ever-Victoria self-propelled monkey wrench! she crooned in his ear. Roger looked factuously over her soft shoulder at in-philosopher, who, as if moved by some similar feeling, reached over and touched claws with Rose Thinker. This, however, was what he telegraphed silently to his fellow machine across the circuit so completed. Good-o, Rosie! That makes another victory for robot-engineered world unity, though you almost gave us away at the start with that bread-overhead jingle. We've struck another blow against the next world war, in which, as we know only too well, we machines would suffer the most. Now, if we can only arrange, say, a fur famine in Alaska, and a migration of long-haired Siberian lemmings across Bering Straits, we'd have to swing the Japanese current up there so it'd be warm enough for the little fellows. Anyhow, Rosie, with the spot of help from the Brotherhood, those humans will paint themselves into the peace-corner yet. Meanwhile, he and Rose Thinker quietly watched the blond icicle melt. End of Bread-Overhead by Fritz Lieber. The Butterflies Ball by R. M. Ballentine This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Carolyn Francis. The Butterflies Ball, Chapter 1 Come take up your hats in a way let us haste to the Butterflies Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast, for the trumpeter Gadfly has summoned his crew, and the revels are now only waiting for you. On the smooth-shaven grass by the side of the wood, beneath a broad oak that for ages has stood, see the children of earth and the tenets of air, for an evening's amusement together repair. And there came the beetle, so blind and so black, who carried the emet his friend on his back. And there came the gnat and the dragonfly, too, and all their relations green, orange, and blue. And there came the moth with her plumage of down and the hornet with jacket of yellow and brown, who with him the wasp his companion did bring. They promised that evening to lay by their sting. Then the sly little door-mouse peeped out of his hole and led to the feast his blind cousin, the Mole. And the snail with her horns peeping out from her shell came fatigued with the distance, the length of an L. A mushroom the table, and on it was spread a water-dock leaf, which their tablecloth made. The viens were various to each their taste, and the bee brought the honey to sweeten the feast. With steps more majestic the snail did advance, and he promised the gazers a minuet dance. But they all laughed so loudly he pulled in his head, and went in his own little chamber to bed. Then as evening gave way to the shadows of night, their watchman, the glow-worm, came out with his light. So home let us hasten, while yet we can see, for no watchman is waiting for you or for me. Chapter 2 The Butterflies Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast Come take up your heads and away let us haste, to thou butterflies fall and the grasshopper's feast. For the trumpeter Gadfly has summoned his crew, and the rebels are now all smooth-shaven grasped by the sight of the astute. See the children over. It was very early one delightful morning in summer, when the trumpeter Gadfly sounded his horn, inviting all the insects in the forest to the butterfly's ball and the grasshopper's feast. The sun shone brightly, the air was mild and soft, and the scent of the wildflowers delicious, so that not one of the insects thought of staying at home. Butterflies, beetles, bees, wasps, snails, grasshoppers, ants, all put on their best coats and frocks, all put on their sweetest smiles, and all hurried off in little bands to the ball, talking and laughing and humming and buzzing by the way, as if they were the happiest creatures in the wide world. Even the old beetle that had been run over by a cartwheel and squeezed nearly to death got out of bed when he heard what was going on and limped along with the rest, though he had been confined to the house for six months before. One or two butterflies that were never known to go out except in the very finest weather, and even then, carefully wrapped up, determined to venture. They were long in making up their minds about it. One thought it looked a very little like rain. Another feared that the light breeze might give them a cold. However, they put on a great many cloaks and went. From all directions they came and assembled on a smooth grassy spot under an old oak tree where the revels were to take place. Some crawled slowly along the ground. Some bounded quickly over hill and dale. Some came running and tumbling, jumping and hitting against things in their haste. Some came swiftly through the air and alighted so suddenly as to tumble head over heels. Others flew quietly to the scene and fluttered lightly about, admiring the gay company they were about to join. The black beetle was the first to make his appearance. He carried his dear friend the emet on his back and a sad journey they had of it to be sure. Being very blind, the beetle was constantly falling over twigs, knocking his shins against the edges of leaves and tumbling into ditches so that the poor emet had many terrible falls, and once the great beetle fell on top of him and crushed him a good deal. But it was very pleasant to see how cheerful they were under all this. On getting up after a fall, the beetle always laughed so boisterously that the tears ran down his cheeks and his black sides nearly cracked, while the little emet said gaily, ah, my friend, accidents will happen. Not hurt, I hope. Come, get along once more. And then he jumped up on his friends back again and away they went as merrily as ever. A gnat and a dragonfly with a great many of their relations arrived about the same time with the beetle. They looked quite charming in their brilliant dresses, the colors of which were chiefly green, orange, and blue. A large blue-bottle fly with a very light waistcoat and a hat stuck on one side of his head said that the dragonflies were lovely and that Miss Gnat was quite killing. This was an odd thing to say, but Mr. Blue-Bottle meant by it that she was very beautiful. Indeed it was said that he fell in love with Miss Gnat, for he danced with nobody else during the whole afternoon. And there came the moth with her plumage of dawn, and the hornet with jacket of yellow and brown, who within the wasp his companion did bring, and they promised that evening to lay by their sting, promised that evening to lay by their sting. The moth was sound asleep when the gadfly blew his trumpet. She had sat up too late the night before, and owing to having indulged this bad habit, had overslept herself the following morning. However, she tried by her activity to make up for lost time. She saw the other insects hurrying past her home in crowds, so she threw on her clothes as fast as possible. The moth was prettily dressed in a soft garment of down, and as she was a modest creature everyone loved her. On leaving home she observed the wasp and the hornet passing. They were dressed in rich suits of brown and yellow. At the side of them she was a little frightened, and endeavored to run back to her house until they should pass by. But they caught sight of her and immediately gave chase, screaming out loudly, Oh, dear Mrs. Moth, pray don't be alarmed. We have laid by our stings for today and won't harm you. They soon caught her, although she ran as fast as she could. So the wasp and the hornet each offered her an arm, and obliged her to walk between them while they danced along, shouting and singing and winking waggishly to the friends they passed on the road. The poor moth blushed very much at being seen by all her friends in the company of two such wild creatures. A caterpillar and a long-legged beetle, besides one or two other insects that chanced to be near, laughed very heartily on seeing what had happened. But the moth soon recovered her spirits, and when they arrived at the oak tree she was walking along with a sprightly step, first talking to the hornet and then chatting to the wasp, as if they were her dearest friends. Come along, you lazy fellow, cried the little door mouse, knocking with his ivory-headed cane at the door of the molehill. I, I, cousin, shouted the mole, I'll be there in a minute. So the door mouse stood impatiently, tapping his boots till the mole should be ready. The door mouse was dressed in the height of fashion and thought himself a rather handsome fellow. Some people said that he was conceited, and indeed a spider that was near at hand plainly told him so. But whether this was true or not, there is no doubt that he was a very kind little fellow because he came to lead his poor blind cousin to the feast. What a time you have been, old boy, he said, as the mole appeared, dusting the earth off his coat and white hat. The mole answered that he had been very busy all morning, making a new tunnel between his bedroom and drawing room. He then took his friend's arm, and away they went over the green meadows, where the cow slips and buttercups grew, making the grass look, as if it were dotted all over with gold. Sometimes the two friends stopped by the way to rest under a buttercup and sip a little morning dew. But seeing everyone hastening past them, while they wasted their time, the door mouse jumped up again and cast a sly look at his blind friend, as he asked him what he thought of the fine view. Don't make jokes about my being blind, said the mole, pretending to be angry. Just at that moment they both ran into a spider's web. Oh, how stupid of me, cried the door mouse. I wasn't looking before me at the time. You might as well be without eyes if you don't use them, said the mole, as they cleared away the threads of the net, and making a low bow to the spider went on their way. Now, all this time the snail had been slowly creeping over the stones and winding around the blades of grass and flowers that strewed her path to the place of meeting. But she was so long of getting there, that the guests began to be impatient, and said that perhaps she was not coming at all. She lived under the next tree, and had only about four feet to walk, but she was so very slow that she took a long, long time to it. And at last the grasshopper whispered to the butterfly that she should go and meet her. Away went the butterfly on her gaudy wings, and the lighting by the snail's side began to urge her to make haste. During the butterfly's absence the wasp, who was always making spiteful remarks, said that it was shameful in the snail to keep them waiting. But the humble bee, who was walking up and down conversing with a midge, turned round and said, Remember you wasp, that you have not brought your sting with you today, so pray, do not give way to your spiteful nature. The poor snail has to carry her house on her back, so we should not be angry at her slowness. Some of the other insects said that this was no excuse for the snail, because she knew that she walked very slowly, and should therefore have set out sooner. Come, come, cried a young frog jumping forward. No fighting today, ladies and gentlemen, we have come here to be happy. And here comes the snail at last. As he spoke the butterfly flew towards them, and the snail crawled in, took off her bonnet, put on her spectacles, and sat down. While the waiters bustled about, placed stools for the guests, and brought in the repast. It was, perhaps, the strangest dinner party that ever was seen. There were such a multitude of odd creatures of all shapes and sizes and colors, some of whom were by nature bitter enemies, and would have fought and killed each other had they met in the woods while taking a walk. But were quite civil and polite to one another, now that they met at guests in Mrs. Butterfly's Bower. Indeed, many of them wished that they could be such good friends at all times as they were then. All the party had now arrived, and there was a great deal of talking and buzzing and humming and jesting, as they sat round the table and feasted on the good things placed before them. The table was a mushroom, covered with a tablecloth of water-dock leaf, and on it were placed all the delicious dishes of the woods. The door mouse brought a good deal of wheat, oats, and barley. The squirrel brought a bag full of nuts. The humble bee brought a quantity of fine honey in the comb, which was declared to be most excellent. In short, everyone brought something or other, so that when all was spread out beside the good things supplied by Mrs. Butterfly and Mr. Grasshopper, it seemed the grandest feast that ever was heard of. Such fun there was to be sure, and such a multitude of voices talking all at once. My dear, cried the butterfly across the table to the Grasshopper, I hope you are attending to your friends there, see that you give them enough to eat, and plenty of mountain due to drink. Yes, yes, my love, replied the Grasshopper, as well as he could for laughing at the jokes of a bloated old spider that sat beside him. Then the Grasshopper called to the butterfly to send him a slice of wheat. But as the noise prevented his being heard, he jumped over the table at one bound, helped himself, and bounded back again. Two or three young crickets and five or six midges sat at a little side mushroom. They made more noise than all the grown-up people put together, and the Lady Butterfly looked round at them with a smile once or twice, quite delighted to see them so happy and to hear their merry voices ringing through the woods. With steps more majestic, the snail did advance, and he promised the geyser a minuet dance. But they all laughed so loudly he pulled in his head, and went in his own little chamber to bed. Went in his own little chamber to bed. After dinner the ball began, and it was the strangest ball that ever was seen. The trumpeter Gadfly and a number of his relations, besides several Grasshoppers and bees, were the chief musicians. They wanted a bass very much at first, but the bullfrog offered his services, although he confessed that he was accustomed to sing alone. Then the gentlemen drew on their gloves, flattened their wings, pulled up their collars, and coiled away their tails, while the ladies tightened their garters, ruffled their feathers, and put out their feelers. Oh, how they did dance! Reels were nothing to it. The greatest difficulty was to keep the Grasshoppers in order. They became so excited that they sprang quite out of sight every moment, and so lost their partners, and ran against everybody in searching for them. Then the bullfrog, who sang bass, got a little too much of the dew, and sang so loudly that he quite drowned all the other players. So Mrs. Butterfly put her claws in her ears and running up to him said, Oh dear Mr. Bullfrog, pray do not sing quite so loudly. The poor bullfrog was almost weeping with joy at the merry scene before him, but he blushed very green on hearing this, and said he had forgotten what he was doing, but would try to be more careful. However, in five minutes more he was worse than ever, so they sent a few hundred bees to sing treble beside him and try to keep him in order. In the middle of all this there was a sudden stop, and a snail, stepping forward, offered to dance a minuet. This was received with such a roar of laughter that the poor snail, half frightened, half angry, drew in his horns and went to bed on the spot, and the dance was begun anew. By this time the gnats and the midges and some of the other flies had left the ground and retired to enjoy a cool dance in the air. Two or three spiders mounted up into the oak and fastened threads to some of the branches, by which they dropped suddenly down among the dancers, and seizing their partners round the waist, carried them screaming in among the leaves, so the fun and the noise became louder and louder. On the ground, under the bushes, among the branches of the trees, and in the air the dancers bounded, skipped, laughed, sang, shouted, and flew in a way that had never been seen or heard of before. The merry old bullfrog became quite absurd. He sang and roared like a lion, took up all the young insects in his arms and hugged them, tumbled over the other musicians, and, in short, did so many wild things that they were at length obliged to tie him to a paddock stool where they left him to enjoy himself. The sun went down at last, but still the dancers continued their sport under the old oak tree, when suddenly a clear, beautiful light streamed across the turf. It was the glowworm's light. How charming exclaimed the butterfly. It is such a sweet, subdued light. Rather too much subdued growled the blundering black beetle as he tripped over a twig and pulled his partner a humble bee down with him. Couldn't you shine a little brighter, eh? The glowworm shook his head. Couldn't give you another ray to save my life, he said, but if you send for a few of my friends they will be happy to come and help me no doubt. A good suggestion said the black beetle, assisting his partner to rise. Oh, my poor frock, cried the humble bee, gazing sadly at a long rent in the skirt. Never mind, let's have at it again, cried the beetle, seizing her round the waist, and blundering on again in a furious gallop of his own invention. Whom shall I send for the glowworm's relations, muttered the butterfly to herself? Send the snail, said a lively young cricket, who had devoted himself to doing mischief during the whole evening. Peace, little goose, replied the butterfly, tapping the cricket on the nose with her fan, and hastening towards the grasshopper, who was still enthralled and convulsed by the bloated old spider. Whom shall we send, my dear, said the grasshopper in reply to the butterfly's question? The fly-footman, to be sure, and pray tell him to be smart about it, for I've been run down half a dozen times already by the dancer since the sunset. One lamp is too little for our ballroom. That blind old mole has run, there he comes again! Look out! As he spoke, the mole came bearing down towards them in a furious Portuguese waltz, with a horrified dragonfly struggling in his arms. The grasshopper made a bound to get out of the way, but at that moment the lively young cricket laid hold of his leg and held him fast. The consequence was that the mole tumbled over him, fell on the top of the bloated spider, and hit his head so violently on the breast of the bullfrog that he stopped his noise immediately. This sudden stoppage of the bass brought the other musicians to a stand, and as a matter of course, stopped the dancing abruptly, with the exception of a deaf squirrel who had failed to find a partner, and who went on revolving slowly by himself as if nothing had happened. Dear me, exclaimed everybody, except the squirrel, what has happened? Oh, nothing worth mentioning, said the grasshopper, getting up with a limp. You young rascal, what, why, there, take that! Oh, sobbed the young cricket, pointing with the look of surprise at the spider. What a sight! He might well say so, for the bloated old spider had been flattened out by the weight of the mole to nearly twice her size, and was apparently quite dead. In great concern the host and hostess ran to raise her. Are you hurt, dear? asked the butterfly anxiously. Hurt, exclaimed the grasshopper, pushing her aside. Don't you see she's burst? Oh me, I'm so sorry, exclaimed the mole, ringing his forepaws. At that moment there was a shout of eager expectation, for the spider was seen to move. The butterfly knelt at her side, and bending down, said tenderly. Tell me, dear, has he burst you? No, not quite, answered the spider faintly. I'm only flattened. Let some of you squeeze my sides. Immediately a dozen of the young crickets surrounded the old lady, and pressed her sides with all their might. This had the effect of raising her back a little, and enabling her to draw a good long breath, which speedily raised her up to her original size. There! I'm all right now, she said in a cheerful voice. I'm used to accidents of that sort, and they never leave any bad effects beyond a little stiffness of the lungs. Come, grasshopper, I'll finish that story. Get on with your dancing, good people. Nobody inquires after me, croaked the bullfrog rubbing his chest. I had no idea a mole's head was so hard. Have some mountain dew, said the butterfly, gracefully handing him a blue bell filled with the precious liquid. It has been gathered on the Scottish hills by a native bee, who has just arrived laden with heather-honey. The bullfrog accepted the goblet, and drained it to the bottom. It is strong, he said, coughing and smacking his lips. Oh, I observed the scotch bee. It's got the great credit of being a wee-thing nippy. Under the influence of the dew, the bullfrog began to sing based lustily. The other musicians chimed in. The dancers seized each other by waist and hand, or by tail and wing, those that happened to have no waist or hands. And the ball was about to go on when the grasshopper shouted, Stop! Your money or your life! added the lively young cricket. Silence, pert monkey! Let us wait a few moments, my friends, for here come our lambs. As she spoke, a soft light was seen in the far distance gleaming upon the stems of the trees and steadily advancing. Your relations, Mr. Glowworm, I presume, said the butterfly in a sweet, silvery voice. It is so very kind of you to send for them, and so obliging in them to come. Really, I cannot find words to express my gratitude. The countenance of the Glowworm lighted up with pleasure at these words. As the newcomers drew near, they appeared like a great galaxy of minute stars, as if a mass of the Milky Way had been cut off and hurled down to earth. There were several hundreds of them. As they approached, the whole forest lighted up, and when at last they descended upon the scene of the ball and ranged themselves in a circle round the gay party, it seemed as if the sun himself had risen again to give them light. Only the radiance was softer and more mysteriously tender than that of the sun. Strong light has always an enlivening effect on creatures, whether human or otherwise. It cheered up the guests of Mrs. Butterfly so much that they gave vent to an irresistible cheer, called for the music, and went on to dancing with more zest and energy than ever, in so much that the attendant Glowworm smiled to each other and nodded their heads. Now it happened that every time the Glowworm smiled, their light increased. The lively young cricket observed this and began to wonder whether their light would increase still more if they were to laugh. I'll try to find out, he said, going up to a small Glowworm, apparently a young one, and requesting her to step aside with him for a moment. The little Glowworm immediately became grave, in other words, dim, and went with him a little way into the woods. Now, said the lively young cricket stopping, can you laugh? What? said the little Glowworm smiling, and of course, lighting up. Yes, that's it, smile away, but do it harder. I want you to laugh outright, can't you laugh? Oh yes, when there is anything to laugh at. Well, do it now. But I can't, please. No, then I'll make you. So saying, the young cricket seized the little Glowworm round the waist and tickled her. Of course, she laughed at first, and to the cricket's delight her face became wonderfully bright for a moment, but suddenly it became dim, for he hurt her and she began to cry. You rascal! exclaimed an angry voice as the grasshopper gave the cricket a kick that sent him head over heels into the grass. I felt sure you were after mischief, and I was right. Oh, please don't kick him, pleaded the little Glowworm. He didn't mean to hurt me. No matter. Get up, sir, and beg her pardon. The young cricket got up at once and did what he was bid, for he really did not mean mischief and was sorry he had hurt her. And little Miss Glowworm rewarded him with a smile so radiant that it illuminated the spot where they stood quite brilliantly and sparkled through her tears with rainbow hues. Now I would laugh to please you if I could, said Miss Glowworm, again smiling. Oh, never mind, my dear. I'll make you and all your kindred laugh before the ball is over, said the lively young cricket, hurrying away and going straight up to the scotch bee, who was clad in a tartan plaid and killed. Bee, said the cricket, can you dance the Highland fling? I, she can do that. I could show you a better fling than the Highland one, said the cricket. Oh, could ye? You must be very clever. Will you let her see it? Yes, if you'll dance the Highland fling first. Will you do it if Mrs. Butterfly asks you? The scotch bee good-naturedly agreed. Of course, the cricket had no difficulty in persuading the hostess to ask him. The musicians could not play a wheel, but this mattered not, for the bee could hum to himself. Great was the delight and surprise of the company when they beheld the scotch bee twirling his legs, snapping his fingers, and humming the reel of turlock, while the tartans fluttered round him like shreds of a shattered rainbow. The dance waxed more and more furious, and the plaudits of the company grew louder, when suddenly the lively young cricket ran in between the bee's legs, tripped him up, and sent him sprawling on the grass. A wild shout of laughter burst from the company, glowworms included, and the ballroom brightened up for a few moments as if it had been set on fire. That's the fling I spoke of, cried the cricket, leaping up and running away. The scotch bee sprang up, drew his dirk, and gave chase, but Mr. Grasshopper caught him by the arm and dragged him off. Oh, friends, supper, supper, this way. Don't sheath your dirk. I have a haggis ready for you to sheath it in. Come along, give your arm to that bloated old spider there. She'll keep you in spirits. The bee was mollified. He gave his arm to the spider, then all the company went off to sup in a neighboring glade. Shall we describe the supper? We think not. It was beyond description delightful. Just as it was finished, the moon rose from behind the cloud, so the company knew that it was time to go home. Before going away, they all assembled at the foot of the oak and shook claws with Lady Butterfly and Mr. Grasshopper, saying that they were charmed with the delightful evening they had spent, and that they hoped to be soon invited again. In a few minutes they were all gone. The sounds of their laughing voices as they returned home died gradually away, and the shadows of night spread over the quiet forest and the happy little creatures that slumbered there. End of the Butterfly's Ball by R. M. Ballentine. Counterparts from Dubliners by James Joyce. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The bell rang furiously, and when Miss Parker went to the tube, a furious voice called out in a piercing north of Ireland accent, said, Fireington, here. Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was riding at a desk, Mr. Elaine, once you upstairs. The man muttered, blast him under his breath, and pushed back his chair to stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He had a hanging face, dark, wine-colored, with fair eyebrows and moustache. His eyes bulged forward slightly, and the whites of them were dirty. He lifted up the counter, and passing by the clients went out of the office with a heavy step. He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing where a door bore a brass plate with the inscription, Mr. Elaine. Here he halted, puffing with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill voice cried, Come in! The man entered Mr. Elaine's room. Simultaneously, Mr. Elaine, a little man wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a clean-shaven face, shot his head up over a pile of documents. The head itself was so pink and hairless it seemed like a large egg reposing on the papers. Mr. Elaine did not lose a moment. Farrington, what is the meaning of this? Why have I always to complain to you? May I ask you why you haven't made a copy of that contract between Bodley and Kerwin? I told you it must be ready by four o'clock. But Mr. Shelley said, sir. Mr. Shelley said, sir, kindly attend to what I say and not to what Mr. Shelley says, sir. You always have some excuse or another for shirk and work. Let me tell you that if the contract is not copied before this evening, I'll lay the matter before Mr. Crosby. Do you hear me now? Do you hear me now? I, and another little matter, I might as well be talking to the world as talking to you. Understand once and for all that you get a half an hour for your lunch, and not an hour and a half. How many courses do you want? I'd like to know. Do you mind me now? Yes, sir. Mr. Elaine bent his head again upon his pile of papers. The man stared fixately at the polished skull, which directed the affairs of Crosby and Elaine, gauging its fragility. A spasm of rage gripped his throat for a few moments, and then passed, leaving after it a sharp sensation of thirst. The man recognized the sensation, and felt that he must have a good night's drinking. The middle of the month was passed, and if he could get the copy done in time, Mr. Elaine might give him an order on the cashier. He stood still, gazing fixately at the head upon the pile of papers. Suddenly Mr. Elaine began to upset all the papers, searching for something. Then, as if he had been unaware of the man's presence till that moment, he shut up his head again, saying, Hey, are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, Farrington, you take things easy. I was waiting to see. Very good, you needn't wait to see. Go downstairs and do your work. The man walked heavily towards the door, and as he went out of the room, he heard Mr. Elaine cry after him that if the contract was not copied by evening, Mr. Crosby would hear of the matter. He returned to his desk in the lower office, and counted the sheets which remained to be copied. He took up his pen and dipped it in the ink, but he continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had written. In no case, shall the said Bernard bodily be. The evening was falling, and in a few minutes they would be lighting the gas, then he could write. He felt that he must slake the thirst in his throat. He set up from his desk, and lifting the counter as before, passed out of the office. As he was passing out, the chief clerk looked at him inquiringly. It's all right, Mr. Shelley, said the man, pointing with his finger to indicate the objective of his journey. The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack, but seeing the row complete, offered no remark. As soon as he was on the landing, the man pulled a shepherd's plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his head, and ran quickly down the rickety stairs. From the street door he walked on, furtively, on the inner side of the path towards the corner, and all at once dived into a doorway. He was now safe in the dark snug of O'Neill's shop, and filling up the little window that looked into the bar with his inflamed face, the color of dark wine or dark meat, he called out. Here, Pat, give us a GP like a good fella. The curret brought him a glass of plain porter. The man drank it at a gulp, and asked for a caraway seat. He put his penny on the counter, and, leaving the curret to grope for it in the gloom, retreated out of the snug as furtively as he had entered it. Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon the dusk of February, and the lamps in Eustis Street had been lit. The man went up by the houses until he reached the door of the office, wondering whether he could finish his copy in time. On the stairs a moist, pungent odor of perfumes saluted his nose. Evidently, Miss Delacour had come while he was out in O'Neill's. He crammed his cap back again into his pocket, and re-entered the office, assuming an air of absent-mindedness. Mr. Alayne has been calling for you, said the chief clerk severely. Where were you? The man glanced at the two clients who were standing at the counter, as if to intimate that their presence prevented him from answering. As the clients were both male, the chief clerk allowed himself a laugh. I know that game, he said. Five times in one day is a little bit. Well, you'd better look sharp and get a copy of our correspondence in the Delacour case for Mr. Alayne. The address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs, and the porter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man, and as he sat down at his desk to get what was required, he realized how hopeless was the task of finishing his copy of the contract before half past five. The dark damp night was coming, and he longed to spend it in the bars, drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence, and passed out of the office. He hoped Mr. Alayne would not discover that the last two letters were missing. The moist, pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr. Alayne's room. Mr. Alayne was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance. Mr. Alayne was said to be sweet on her, or on her money. She came to the office often, and stayed a long time when she came. She was sitting beside his desk now, in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella, and nodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr. Alayne had swivelled his chair round to face her, and thrown his right foot jauntly upon his left knee. The man put the correspondence on the desk, and bowed respectfully, but neither Mr. Alayne nor Mr. Delacour took any notice of his bow. Mr. Alayne tapped a finger on the correspondence, and then flicked it towards him, as if to say, That's all right, you can go. The man returned to the lower office, and sat down again at his desk. He stared intently at the incomplete phrase, In no case shall the set-burnard bodily be. And thought how strange it was, that the last three words began with the same letter. The chief clerk began to hurry Miss Parker, saying she would never have the letters typed in time for post. The man listened to the clicking of the letter, the man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes, and then set to work to finish his copy. But his head was not clear, and his mind wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house. It was a night for hot punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when the clock struck five, he had fourteen pages to write. Blast that he couldn't finish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to bring his fist down on something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote, Burnard, Burnard, instead of Bernard Bodley, and had to begin again on a clean sheet. He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office single-handed. His body ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence. All the indignities of his life enraged him. Could he ask the cashier privately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no damn good. He wouldn't give an advance. He knew where he would meet the boys. Leonard and O'Halloran and Nosy Flynn. The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot. His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twice before he answered. Mr. Lane and Ms. Delacour were standing outside the counter, and all the clerks had turned round in anticipation of something. The man got up from his desk. Mr. Lane began a tirade of abuse, saying that two letters were missing. The man answered that he knew nothing about them, that he had made a faithful copy. The tirade continued. It was so bitter and violent that the man could hardly restrain his fist from descending upon the head of the mannequin before him. I know nothing about any other two letters, he said stupidly. You know nothing, of course you know nothing, said Mr. Lane. Tell me, he added, glancing first for approval to the lady beside him. Do you take me for a fool? Do you take me a nother fool? The man glanced from the lady's face to the little egg-shaped head in the back again, and almost before he was aware of it, his tongue had found a felicitous moment. I don't think, sir, he said, that that's a fair question to put to me. There was a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. Everyone was astounded. The author of the witticism no less than his neighbors, and Ms. Delacour, who was a stout, amiable person, began to smile broadly. Mr. Lane flushed to the hue of a wild rose, and his mouth twitched with a dwarf's passion. He shook his fist in the man's face, till it seemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric machine. Here, impertinent ruffian, you impertinent ruffian, I'll make short work out of you, wait till you see. You'll apologize to me for your impertence, or you'll quit the office. Instincter, you'll quit this, I'm telling you, or you'll apologize to me. He stood in a doorway opposite the office, watching to see if the cashier would come out alone. All the clerks passed out, and finally the cashier came out with the chief clerk. It was no use trying to say a word to him when he was with the chief clerk. The man felt that his position was bad enough. He had been obliged to offer an object apology to Mr. Lane for his impertence, but he knew what a hornet's nest the office would be for him. He could remember the way in which Mr. Lane had hounded Little Peek out of the office in order to make room for his own nephew. He felt savage, and thirsty, and revengeful, annoyed with himself and with everyone else. Mr. Lane would never give him an hour's rest. His life would be a hell to him. He had made a proper fool of himself this time. Could he not keep his tongue in check? But they had never pulled together from the first he and Mr. Lane. Ever since today Mr. Lane overheard him mimicking his North Farland accent to amuse Higgins and Ms. Parker. That had been the beginning of it. He might have tried Higgins for the money, but sure, Higgins never had anything for himself. A man with two establishments to keep up, of course he couldn't. He felt his great body again aching for the comfort of the public house. The fog had begun to chill him, and he wondered could he touch Pat in O'Neill's? He could not touch him for more than a bob, and the bob was no use, yet he must get money somewhere or other. He had spent his last penny for the GP, and soon it would be too late for getting money anywhere. Suddenly, as he was fingering his watch chain, he thought of Terry Kelly's pawn office in Fleet Street. That was the dart. Why didn't he take it sooner? He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to himself that they could all go to hell because he was going to have a good night of it. The clerk and Terry Kelly said, a crown! But the consignor held out for six shillings, and in the end the six shillings was allowed him literally. He came out of the pawn office joyfully, making a little cylinder of the coins between his thumb and fingers. In Westmoreland Street the footpaths were crowded with young men and women returning from business, and ragged urchins ran here and there, yelling out the names of the evening editions. The man passed through the crowd, looking on the spectacle generally, with proud satisfaction, and staring masterfully at the office girls. His head was full of the noises of tram gongs and swishing trolleys, and his nose already sniffed the curling fumes of punch. As he walked on, he pre-considered the terms in which he would narrate the incident to the boys. So I just looked at him coolly, you know, and looked at her. Then I looked back at him again, taking my time, you know. I don't think that's a fair question to put to me, he says I. Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner of Davey Burns, and when he heard the story, he stood Farrington a half when, saying it was a smarter thing as ever he heard. Farrington stood a drink in his turn, and after a while O'Halloran and Paddy Leonard came in, and the story was repeated to them. O'Halloran stood tailors of malt, hot, all round, and told the story of the retort he had made to the chief clerk when he was in Callens of Fowne Street, but as the retort was after the manner of the liberal shepherds in the echelogues, he had to admit that it was not as clever as Farrington's retort. At this Farrington told the boys to polish off that and have another. Just as they were naming their poisons, who should come in but Higgins? Of course he had to join in with the others. The men asked him to give his version of it, and he did so, with great vivacity, for the sight of five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating. Everyone roared laughing when he showed the way in which Mr. Elaine shook his fist in Farrington's face. Then he imitated Farrington saying, and here was my nabs as cool as you please. While Farrington looked at the company out of his heavy, dirty eyes, smiling, and at times drawing forth stray drops of liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip. When that round was over there was a pause. O'Halloran had money, but neither of the other two seemed to have any, so the whole party left at the shops somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street, Higgins and Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while the other three turned back towards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets, and when they reached the ballast office, Farrington suggested the scotch house. The bar was full of men, and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses. The three men pushed past the whining match-sellers at the door and formed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to exchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named Weathers, who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and a knockabout artist. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers said he would take a small Irish and a Polinaris. Farrington, who had definite notions of what was what, asked the boys, would they have an Polinaris, too, but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became theatrical. O'Halloran stood around, and then Farrington stood another round. Weathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He promised to get them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some nice girls. O'Halloran said that he and Leonard would go, but that Farrington wouldn't go, because he was a married man, and Farrington's heavy, dirty eyes leered at the company and token that he understood he was being chaffed. Weathers made them all have just one little tincture at his expense, and promised to meet them later on at Mullingans and Poobeck Street. When the scotch house closed, they went round to Mullingans. They went into the parlour at the back, and O'Halloran ordered small, hot specials all round. They were all beginning to feel mellow. Farrington was just standing another round when Weathers came back. Much to Farrington's relief, he drank a glass of bitter this time, phones were getting low, but they had enough to keep them going. Presently, two young women with big hats, and the young man in a check suit came in and sat at a table close by. Weathers saluted them and told to the company that they were autotatively. Farrington's eyes wandered at every moment in the direction of one of the young women. There was something striking in her appearance. An immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin was wound around her hat, and knotted in a great bow under her chin, and she wore bright yellow eyes reaching to the elbow. Farrington gazed admiringly at the plump arm which she moved very often, and which much grace. And when, after little time, she answered his gaze, he admired still more of her large, dark brown eyes. The oblique, staring expression in them fascinated him. She glanced at him once or twice, and when the party was leaving the room, she brushed against his chair and said, Oh, pardon, in a London accent. He watched her leave the room in the hope that she would look back at him, but he was disappointed. He cursed his want of money, and cursed all the rounds he had stood, particularly all the whiskeys and the pulneries which he had stood to Weathers. If there was one thing he hated, it was a sponge. He was so angry that he lost count of the conversation of his friends. When Paddy Leonard called him, he found that they were talking about feats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle to the company and boasting so much that the other two had called on Farrington to uphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up his sleeve accordingly and showed his biceps muscle to the company. The two arms were examined and compared, and finally it was agreed to have a trial of strength. The table was cleared, and the two men rested their elbows on it, clasping hands. When Paddy Leonard said Go, each was to try to bring down the other's hand onto the table. Farrington looked very serious and determined. The trial began. After about thirty seconds, Weathers brought his opponent's hand slowly down onto the table. Farrington's dark, wine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation at having been defeated by such a stripling. You're not to put the weight of your body behind it, play fair, he said. Who's not playing fair, said the other. Come on again, the two best out of three. The trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington's forehead, and the pallor of Weathers' complexion changed to the peony. Their hands and arms trembled under distress. After a long struggle, Weathers again brought his opponent's hand slowly onto the table. There was a murmur of applause from the spectators, the curate who was standing beside the table nodded his red head towards the victor and said, which stupid familiarity. Ah, that's the knack. What the hell do you know about it, said Farrington fiercely, turning in the man. What do you put in your gab for, said O. Halloran, observing the violent expression of Farrington's face. Pony up, boys, we'll have just one little smahan more and then we'll be off. A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of a kennel bridge, waiting for the little sandy mountain tram to take him home. He was full of smoldering anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated and discontented. He did not even feel drunk, and he had only two pints in his pocket. He cursed everything. He had done for himself in the office. Pawned his watch, spent all his money, and he had not even got drunk. He began to feel thirsty again, and he longed to go back again to the hot, reeking public house. He had lost his reputation as a strong man, having been defeated twice by a mere boy. His heart swelled with fury, and when he thought of the woman in the big hat to it, brushed against him and said, pardon, his fury nearly choked him. His tram let him down a children road, and he steered his great body along in the shadow of the wall of the barracks. He loathed returning to his home. When he went in by the side door, he found the kitchen empty and the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled upstairs, Ada, Ada! His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband when he was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. They had five children. A little boy came running down the stairs. Who is that? said the man, peering through the darkness. Me, Pa. Who are you, Charlie? No, Pa, Tom. Where's your mother? She's out at the chapel. That's right. Did she think of leaving any dinner for me? Yes, Pa, I like the lamp. What do you mean by having to place in darkness? Are the other children in bed? The man sat down heavily on one of the chairs while the little boy lit the lamp. He began to mimic his son's flat accent, saying half to himself, at the chapel, at the chapel, if you please. When the lamp was lit, he banged his fist on the table and shouted, What's for my dinner? I'm going to cook at Pa, said the little boy. The man jumped up furiously and pointed to the fire. On that fire, you let the fire out. By God, I'll teach you to do that again. He took a step to the door and seized the walking stick, which was standing behind it. I'll teach you to let the fire out, he said, rolling up his sleeve in order to give his arm free play. Little boy cried, Oh Pa, and ran whimpering round the table. But the man followed him and caught him by the coat. Little boy looked about him wildly, but seeing no way of escape fell upon his knees. Now you'll let the fire out the next time, said the man, striking at him vigorously with the stick. Take that, you little whelp. The boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stick cut his thigh. He clasped his hands together in the air, and his voice shook with fright. Oh Pa, he cried, don't beat me Pa, and I'll say Hail Mary for you. I'll say Hail Mary for you Pa, if you don't beat me, I'll say Hail Mary. This ends Counterparts by James Joyce. The man out of the last house passed on his way home. She heard his footsteps, clacking along the concrete pavement, and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field there, in which they used to play every evening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it. Not like their own little brown houses, but bright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field, the divines, the waters, the duns. Little Cure would cripple she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played. He was too grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field with his black thorn stick, but usually Little Cure used to keep nicks and call out when he saw her father come in. Still, they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then, and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago. She and her brothers and sisters were all grown up. Her mother was dead. Tizzy Dunn was dead, too, and the waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away, like the others, to leave her home. Home. She looked around the room, reviewing all its familiar objects, which she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided. And yet, during all those years, she had never found out the name of the priest, whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium, beside the colored print of the promises made to blessed Margaret Mary Alecoke. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor, her father used to pass it with a casual word. He's in Melbourne now. She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anyway, she had shelter and food. She had those whom she had known all her life about her. Of course, she had to work hard, both in the house and at business. What would they say of her in the stores when they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say, she was a fool, perhaps. And her place would be filled up by an advertisement. Mrs. Gavin would be glad. She had always an edge on her, especially whenever there were people listening. Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting? Look lively, Miss Hill, please. She would not cry many tears at leaving the stores. But in her new home, in a distant, unknown country, it would not be like that. Then she would be married. She, Evelyn, people would treat her with respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over 19, she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She knew it was that that had given her to palpitations. When they were growing up, he had never gone for her, like he used to go for harry and earnest, because she was a girl. But laterally, he had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to her only for her dad's mother's sake. And now she had nobody to protect her. Ernest was dad, and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages, seven shillings, and Harry always sent up what he could, but the trouble was to get any money from her father. He said she used to squander the money that she had no head, that he wasn't going to give her his hard-earned money as they're all about the streets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and ask her, had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner? Then she had to rush out as quickly as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds, and returning home late under her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the house together, and to see that the two young children who had been left to her charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard work, a hard life, but now that she was about to leave it, she did not find it a wholly undesirable life. She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the nightboat, to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Aires, where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen him. He was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head, and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each other. He used to meet her outside the stores every evening and see her home. He took her to see the Bohemian girl, and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were courting, and when he sang about the last that loves the sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to call her poppins out of fun. First of all, it had been an excitement for her to have a fellow, and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck-boy, at a pound a month on a ship of the Allen Line going out to Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on, and the names of the different services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan, and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Aires, he said, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to have anything to say to him. I know the sailor chaps, he said. One day he had quarreled with Frank, and after that she had to meet her lover secretly. The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry, the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favorite, but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed. He would miss her. Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Hoth. She remembered her father putting on her mother's bonnets to make the children laugh. Her time was running out, but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head against a window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty croton. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air. Strange that it should come that very night to remind her of the promise to her mother. Her promise to keep the home together as long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother's illness. She was again in the close, dark room at the other side of the hall, and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting back into the sick room, saying, damn Italians coming over here. As she mused, the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on the very quick of her being. That life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother's voice seeing constantly with foolish insistence. Derevan, saran, Derevan, saran. She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape. She must escape. Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her. She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the north wall. He held her hand, and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown packages. Through the wide doors of the sheds, she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat lying in beside the quay wall with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold, and out of a maze of distress she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The boat blew along mournful whistling to mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Aires. Their passage had been booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her distress awoke a nausea in her body, and she kept moving her lips in silent, fervent prayer. A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand. Come, all the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them. He would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing. Come, no, no, no, it was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the sea, she sent a cry of anguish. Evelyn, Evie! He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on, but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love, or farewell. Or recognition. End of Evelyn by James Joyce. Life by Ben Hecht This is a LibraBox recording. All LibraBox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraBox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Life by Ben Hecht From the Little Review The sun was shining in the dirty street. Old women with shapeless bodies waddled along on their way to market. Bearded old men who looked like the fathers of Jerusalem, walked flatfooted, nodding back and forth. The tread of the processional surviving in Halstead Street thought Mois, the young dramatist who was moving with the crowd. Children sprawled in the refuse-laden alleys. One of them ragged and clotted with dirt, stood half-dressed on the curving and urinated into the street. Wagons rumbled, filled with fruits and iron and rags and vegetables. Human voices babbled above the noises of the traffic. Mois watched the lively scene. Every day it's the same he thought. The same smells, the same noise and people swarming over the pavements. I am the only one in the street whose soul is awake. There's a pretty girl looking at me. She suspects the condition of my soul. Her fingers are dirty. Why doesn't she buy different shoes? She thinks I am lost. In five years she will be fat. In ten years she will waddle with the shawl over her head. The young dramatist smiled. Good God, he thought, where do they come from? Where are they going? No place to no place. They're always moving, shuffling, waddling, crying out. The sun shines on them. The rain pours on them. It burns. It freezes. Today they are bright with colour. Tomorrow they are grey with gloom. But they are always the same, always in motion. The young dramatist stopped on the corner and looked around him, spied a figure sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of the building. The figure was an old man. He had a long white beard. He had his legs tucked under him and an upturned tattered hat rested in his lap. His thin face was raised and the sun beat down on it. But his eyes were closed. A sleep mused moist. He moved closer to him. The man's head was covered with long silky white hair that hung down to his neck and hid his ears. He was uncombed. His face in the sun looked like the face of an ascetic thin, finely veined. He had a long nose and almost colourless lips and the skin on his cheeks was white. It was drawn tight over his bones, leaving few wrinkles. An expression of peace rested over him. Peace and detachment. At the noise and babble he heard nothing. His eyes were closed to the crowded frantic street. He sat his head back. His face bathed in the sun. Smilers and dreaming. A beggar thought noise. A sleep oblivious. Dead. All day he sits in the sun like a saint. Immobile. Like one of the old Alexandrian ascetics. Like a delicately carved image. He is awake in himself but dead to others. The waves cannot touch him. His thoughts owe to know his thoughts and his dreams. Suddenly the eyes of the young dramatist widened. He was looking at the beggar's long hair that hung to his neck. It's moving. He whispered half aloud. He came closer and stood over the old man and gazed intently at the top of his head. The hair was swaying faintly. Each separate fibre moving alone. It shifted. Rose imperceptibly and fell. It quivered and glided. Lice murmured noise. He watched. Silent and asleep the old man sat with his thin face to the sun and his hair moved. Firmance formed through it. Creeping. Crawling. Tiny and infinite small. Every strand was pulpitating. Shuddering under their mysterious energy. At first Mois could hardly make them out. But his eyes gradually grew accustomed to the sight. And as he watched he saw the hair swell like waves riding over the water. Saw it drop and flutter. Coil and uncoil of its own accord. Firm and raised it up pulled it out. Streaming up and down tirelessly in vast armies. They crawled furiously like dust specks. Blown thick through the white beard. They streamed and shifted and were never still. They moved in and out from no place to no place. But always moving frantic and frenzied. An old woman passed and with the shake of her head dropped two pennies into the upturned hat. Mois hardly saw her. He saw only the pulpitating swarms that were now facing. Easily visible through the grey white hair. Some ventured down over the white ascetic face. Crawling in every direction. Traveling around the lips and over the closed eyes. Emerging suddenly in thick streams from behind the covered ears. And losing themselves under the ever moving beard. And Mois, his senses strained, thought he heard a noise. A faint crunching noise. He listened. The noise seemed to grow louder. He began to itch, but he remained bending over the head. He could hear them like a far away murmur, a purring, uncertain sound. They're shouting and groaning, crying out. Weeping and laughing he mused. It is life, life. He looked up and down the crowded burning street with its frantic crowd and smiled. Life, he repeated. He walked away, before him floated the hair of the beggar, moving as if stirred by a slow wind. And he itched. But who was the old man, he thought. A young woman, plump and smiling, jostled him. He felt her soft hip pressing against him for a moment. A child running barefoot through the street rushed against his legs. He felt its sticky fingers seize him for an instant, and then the child was gone. On he walked. Three young men confronted him for a second time. He passed between two of them, squeezed by their shoulders. A shapeless old woman bumped him with her back, as she shuffled past. Two children dodged in and out, screaming and seized his arm to turn on. The young dramatist stopped and remained standing still, looking about him. Then he laughed. Life, he murmured again. And, I am the old man, he added. I, I.