Asleep in Armageddon

                            By RAY BRADBURY

            Avoid Planetoid 787. Lush and sunny, with fine
            air and no dangerous beasts, it'll tempt you to
           curve in for some nice solid-ground sleep. DON'T!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Planet Stories Winter 1948.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


You don't want death and you don't expect death. Something goes wrong,
your rocket tilts in space, a planetoid jumps up, blackness, movement,
hands over the eyes, a violent pulling back of available power in the
fore-jets, the crash....

The darkness. In the darkness, the senseless pain. In the pain, the
nightmare.

He was not unconscious.

_Your name?_ asked hidden voices. _Sale_, he replied in whirling
nausea. _Leonard Sale._ _Occupation_, cried the voices. _Spaceman!_
he cried, alone in the night. _Welcome_, said the voices. _Welcome,
welcome._ They faded.

He stood up in the wreckage of his ship. It lay like a folded, tattered
garment around him.

The sun rose and it was morning.

Sale pried himself out the small air-lock and stood breathing the
atmosphere. Luck. Sheer luck. The air was breathable. An instant's
checking showed him that he had two month's supply of food with him.
Fine, fine! And this--he fingered at the wreckage. Miracle of miracles!
The radio was intact.

He stuttered out the message on the sending key. CRASHED ON PLANETOID
787. SALE. SEND HELP. SALE. SEND HELP.

The reply came instantly: HELLO, SALE. THIS IS ADDAMS IN MARSPORT.
SENDING RESCUE SHIP LOGARITHM. WILL ARRIVE PLANETOID 787 IN SIX DAYS.
HANG ON.

Sale did a little dance.

It was simple as that. One crashed. One had food. One radioed for help.
Help came. _La!_ He clapped his hands.

The sun rose and was warm. He felt no sense of mortality. Six days
would be no time at all. He would eat, he would read, he would sleep.
He glanced at his surroundings. No dangerous animals; a tolerable
oxygen supply. What more could one ask. Beans and bacon, was the
answer. The happy smell of breakfast filled the air.

After breakfast he smoked a cigarette slowly, deeply, blowing out. He
nodded contentedly. What a life! Not a scratch on him. Luck. Sheer luck.

His head nodded. Sleep, he thought.

Good idea. Forty winks. Plenty of time to sleep, take it easy. Six
whole long, luxurious days of idling and philosophizing. Sleep.

He stretched himself out, tucked his arm under his head, and shut his
eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Insanity came in to take him. The voices whispered.

_Sleep, yes, sleep_, said the voices. _Ah, sleep, sleep._

He opened his eyes. The voices stopped. Everything was normal. He
shrugged. He shut his eyes casually, fitfully. He settled his long body.

_Eeeeeeeeeeee_, sang the voices, far away.

_Ahhhhhhhh_, sang the voices.

_Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep_, sang the voices.

_Die, die, die, die, die_, sang the voices.

_Ooooooooooooooo_, cried the voices.

_Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm_, a bee ran through his brain.

He sat up. He shook his head. He put his hands to his ears. He blinked
at the crashed ship. Hard metal. He felt the solid rock under his
fingers. He saw the real sun warming the blue sky.

Let's try sleeping on our back, he thought. He adjusted himself, lying
back down. His watch ticked on his wrist. The blood burned in his veins.

_Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep_, sang the voices.

_Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, sang the voices.

_Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, sang the voices.

_Die, die, die, die, die. Sleep, sleep, die, sleep, die, sleep, die!
Oohhh. Ahhhhh. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

Blood tapped in his ears. The sound of the wind rising.

_Mine, mine_, said a voice. _Mine, mine, he's mine!_

_No, mine, mine_, said another voice. _No, mine, mine; he's_ mine!

_No, ours, ours_, sang ten voices. _Ours, ours, he's_ ours!

His fingers twitched. His jaws spasmed. His eyelids jerked.

_At last, at last_, sang a high voice. _Now, now. The long time, the
waiting. Over, over_, sang the high voice. _Over, over at last!_

It was like being undersea. Green songs, green visions, green time.
Bubbled voices drowning in deep liquors of sea tide. Far away choruses
chanting senseless rhymes. Leonard Sale stirred in agony.

_Mine, mine_, cried a loud voice. _Mine, mine!_ shrieked another.
_Ours, ours!_ shrieked the chorus.

The din of metal, the crash of sword, the conflict, the battle, the
fight, the war. All of it exploding, his mind fiercely torn apart!

_Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

He leaped up, screaming. The landscape melted and flowed.

[Illustration: _He leaped up, raving. What was going on?_]

A voice said, "I am Tylle of Rathalar. Proud Tylle, Tylle of the Blood
Mound and the Death Drum. Tylle of Rathalar, Killer of Men!"

Another spoke, "I am Iorr of Wendillo, Wise Iorr, Destroyer of
Infidels!"

The chorus chanted. "And we the warriors, we the steel, we the
warriors, we the red blood rushing, the red blood falling, the red
blood steaming in the sun--"

Leonard Sale staggered under the burden. "Go away!" he cried. "Leave
me, in God's name, leave me!"

_Eeeeeeeeeee_, shrieked the high sound of steel hot on steel.

Silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

He stood with the sweat boiling out of him. He was trembling so
violently he could not stand. Insane, he thought. Absolutely insane.
Raving insane. Insane.

He jerked the food kit open, did something to a chemical packet. Hot
coffee was ready in an instant. He mouthed it, spilled gushes of it
down his shirt. He shivered. He sucked in raw gulps of breath.

Let's be logical, he thought, sitting down heavily. The coffee seared
his tongue. No record of insanity in the family for two hundred years.
All healthy, well-balanced. No reason for insanity now. Shock? Silly.
No shock. I'm to be rescued in six days. No shock to that. No danger.
Just an ordinary planetoid. Ordinary, ordinary place. No reason for
insanity. I'm sane.

_Oh?_ cried a small metal voice within. An echo. Fading.

"Yes!" he cried, beating his fists together. "Sane!"

_Hahahahahahahahahah._ Somewhere a vanishing laughter.

He whirled about. "Shut up, you!" he cried.

We didn't say anything, said the mountains. We didn't say anything,
said the sky. We didn't say anything, said the wreckage.

"All right then," he said, swaying. "See that you don't."

Everything was normal.

       *       *       *       *       *

The pebbles were getting hot. The sky was big and blue. He looked at
his fingers and saw the way the sun burned on every black hair. He
looked at his boots and the dust on them. Suddenly he felt very happy
because he made a decision. I won't go to sleep, he thought. I'm having
nightmares, so why sleep. There's your solution.

He made a routine. From nine o'clock in the morning, which was this
minute, until twelve, he would walk around and see the planetoid. He
would write on a pad with a yellow pencil everything he saw. Then he
would sit down and open a can of oily sardines and some canned fresh
bread with good butter on it. From twelve thirty until four he would
read nine chapters of _War and Peace_. He took the book from the
wreckage, and laid it where he might find it later. There was a book of
T. S. Eliot's poetry, too. That might be nice.

Supper would come at five-thirty and then from six until ten he
would listen to the radio from Earth. There would be a couple of bad
comedians telling jokes and a bad singer singing some song, and the
latest news flashes, signing off at midnight with the UN anthem.

After that?

He felt sick.

I'll play solitaire until dawn, he thought. I'll sit up and drink hot
black coffee and play solitaire, no cheating, until sunrise.

Ho ho, he thought.

"What did you say?" he asked himself.

"I said 'Ha ha'," he replied. "_Some_ time, you'll have to sleep."

"I'm wide awake," he said.

"Liar," he retorted, enjoying the conversation.

"I feel fine," he said.

"Hypocrite," he replied.

"I'm not afraid of the night, or sleep, or anything," he said.

"_Very_ funny," he said.

He felt bad. He wanted to sleep. And the fact that he was afraid of
sleep made him want to lie down all the more and shut his eyes and curl
up. "Comfy-cozy?" asked his ironic censor.

"I'll just walk and look at the rocks and the geological formations and
think how good it is to be alive," he said.

"Ye gods," cried his censor. "William Saroyan!"

You'll go on, he thought, maybe one day, maybe one night, but what
about the next night and the next, and the _next_? Can you stay awake
_all_ that time, for six nights? Until the rescue ship comes? Are you
_that_ good, _that_ strong?

The answer was no.

What are you afraid of? I don't know. Those voices. Those sounds. But
they can't hurt you, can they?

They _might_. You've got to face them some time. Must I? Brace up to
it, old man. Chin up, and all that rot.

He sat down on the hard ground. He felt very much like crying. He felt
as if life was over and he was entering new and unknown territory. It
was such a deceiving day, with the sun warm; physically, he felt able
and well, one might fish on such a day as this, or pick flowers or kiss
a woman or anything. But in the midst of a lovely day, what did one get?

Death.

Well, hardly _that_.

Death, he insisted.

He lay down and closed his eyes. He was tired of messing around.

All right, he thought, if you _are_ death, come get me. I want to know
what all this damned nonsense is about.

Death came.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Eeeeeeeeeeeeee_, said a voice.

Yes, I know, said Leonard Sale, lying there. But what else?

_Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, said a voice.

I know that, also, said Leonard Sale, irritably. He turned cold. His
mouth hung open wildly.

"I am Tylle of Rathalar, Killer of Men!"

"I am Iorr of Wendillo, Destroyer of Infidels!"

What is this place? asked Leonard Sale, struggling against horror.

"Once a mighty planet!" said Tylle of Rathalar.

"Once a place of battles!" said Iorr of Wendillo.

"Now dead," said Tylle.

"Now silent," said Iorr.

"Until _you_ came," said Tylle.

"To give us life again," said Iorr.

You're dead, insisted Leonard Sale, flesh writhing. You're nothing but
empty wind.

"We live, through you."

"And fight, through _you_!"

So that's it, thought Leonard Sale. I'm to be a battleground, am I? Are
you friends?

"Enemies!" cried Iorr.

"Foul enemies!" cried Tylle.

       *       *       *       *       *

Leonard smiled a rictal smile. He felt ghastly. How long have you
waited? he demanded.

"How long is _time_?" Ten thousand years? "Perhaps." Ten million years?
"Perhaps."

What are you? Thoughts, spirits, ghosts? "All of those, and more."
Intelligences? "Precisely." How did you survive?

_Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee_, sang the chorus, far away.

_Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, sang another army, waiting to fight.

"Once upon a time, this was fertile land, a rich planet. And there were
two nations, strong nations, led by two strong men. I, Iorr. And he,
that one who calls himself Tylle. And the planet declined and gave way
to nothingness. The peoples and the armies languished in the midst of
a great war which had lasted five thousand years. We lived long lives
and loved long loves, drank much, slept much, fought much. And when
the planet died, our bodies withered, and, only in time, and with much
science, did we survive."

Survive, wondered Leonard Sale. But there is nothing of you!

"Our _minds_, fool, our _minds_! What is a body without a mind?"

What is a mind without a _body_, laughed Leonard Sale. I've got you
there. Admit it, I've _got_ you!

"True," said the cruel voice. "One is useless lacking the other. But
survival is survival even when unconscious. The minds of our nations,
through science, through wonder, survived."

But without senses, lacking eyes, ears, lacking touch, smell, and the
rest? "Lacking all those, yes. We were vapors, merely. For a long time.
Until today."

And now I am here, thought Leonard Sale. "You are here," said the
voice. "To give substance to our mentalities. To give us our needed
body."

I'm only one, thought Sale. "Nevertheless, you are of use."

I'm an individual, thought Sale. I resent your intrusion.

"He resents our intrusion! Did you hear him, Iorr? He resents!"

"As if he had a right to resent!"

Be careful, warned Sale. I'll blink my eyes and you'll be gone,
phantoms! I'll wake up and rub you out!

"But you'll have to sleep again, _some_ time!" cried Iorr. "And when
you do, we'll be here, waiting, waiting, waiting. For you."

What do you want? "Solidity. Mass. Sensation again." You can't _both_
have it. "We'll fight that out between us."

A hot clamp twisted his skull. It was as if a spike had been thrust and
beaten down between the bivalvular halves of his brain.

Now it was terribly clear. Horribly, magnificently clear. He was their
universe. The world of his thoughts, his brain, his skull, divided into
two camps, that of Iorr, that of Tylle. They were _using_ him!

Pennants flung up on a pink mind sky! Brass shields caught the sun.
Grey animals shifted and came rushing in bristling tides of sword and
plume and trumpet.

_Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_ The rushing.

_Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!_ The roaring.

_Nowwwwwwwwww!_ the whirling.

_Mmmmmmmmmmmmm_----

Ten thousand men hurtled across the small hidden stage. Ten thousand
men floated on the shellacked inner ball of his eye. Ten thousand
javelins hissed between the small bone hulls of his head. Ten thousand
jeweled guns exploded. Ten thousand voices chanted in his ears. Now
his body was riven and extended, shaken and rolled, he was screaming,
writhing, the plates of his skull threatened to burst asunder. The
gabbling, the shrilling, as, across bone plains of mind and continent
of inner marrow, through gullies of vein, down hills of artery, over
rivers of melancholy, came armies and armies, one army, two armies,
swords flashed in the sun, bearing down upon each other, fifty thousand
minds snatching, scrabbling, cutting at him, demanding, using. In a
moment, the hard collision, one army on another, the rush, the blood,
the sound, the fury, the death, the insanity!

Like cymbals, the armies struck!

He leaped up, raving. He ran across the desert. He ran and ran and did
not stop running.

He sat down and cried. He sobbed until his lungs ached. He cried
very hard and long. Tears ran down his cheeks and into his upraised,
trembling fingers. "God, God, help me, oh God, help me," he said.

All was normal again.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was four o'clock in the afternoon. The rocks were baked by the sun.
He managed, after a time, to cook himself a few hot biscuits, which he
ate with strawberry jam. He wiped his stained fingers on his shirt,
blindly, trying not to think.

"At least I know what I'm up against," he thought. "Oh, Lord, what a
world. What an innocent looking world, and what a monster it really is.
It's good no one ever explored it before. Or _did_ they?" He shook his
aching head. Pity them, who ever crashed here before, if any ever did.
Warm sun, hard rocks, not a sign of hostility. A lovely world.

Until you shut your eyes and relaxed your mind.

And the night and the voices and the insanity and the death padded in
on soft feet.

"I'm all right now, though," he said, proudly. "Look at that." He
displayed his hand. By a supreme effort of will, it was no longer
shaking. "I'll show you who in hell's ruler here," he announced to the
innocent sky. "_I_ am." He tapped his chest.

To think that _thought_ could live that long! A million years, perhaps,
all these thoughts of death and disorder and conquest, lingering in the
innocent but poisonous air of the planet, waiting for a real man to
give them a channel through which they might issue again in all their
senseless virulence.

Now that he was feeling better, it was all silly. All I have to do,
he thought, is stay awake six nights. They won't bother me that way.
When I'm awake, I'm dominant. I'm stronger than those crazy monarchs
and their silly tribes of sword-flingers and shield-bearers and
horn-blowers. I'll stay awake.

But _can_ you? he wondered. Six whole nights? Awake?

There's coffee and medicine and books and cards.

But I'm tired _now_, so tired, he thought. Can I hold out?

Well, if not. There's always the gun.

Where will these silly monarchs be if you put a bullet through their
stage? All the world's a stage? No. _You_, Leonard Sale, are the small
stage. And they the players. And what if you put a bullet through the
wings, tearing down scenes, destroying curtains, ruining lines! Destroy
the stage, the players, all, if they aren't careful!

First of all, he must radio through to Marsport, again. If there was
any way they could rush the rescue ship sooner, then maybe he could
hang on. Anyway, he must warn them what sort of planet this was, this
so innocent seeming spot of nightmare and fever vision--

He tapped on the radio key for a minute. His mouth tightened. The radio
was dead.

It had sent through the proper rescue message, received a reply, and
then extinguished itself.

The proper touch of irony, he thought. There was only one thing to do.
Draw a plan.

This he did. He got a yellow pencil and delineated his six day plan of
escape.

Tonight, he wrote, read six more chapters of _War and Peace_. At four
in the morning have hot black coffee. At four-fifteen take cards from
pack and play ten games of solitaire. This should take until six-thirty
when--more coffee. At seven o'clock, listen to early morning programs
from Earth, if the receiving equipment on the radio works at all. Does
it?

He tried the radio receiver. It was dead.

Well, he wrote, from seven o'clock until eight, sing all the songs you
remember, make your own entertainment. From eight until nine think
about Helen King. Remember Helen. On second thought, think about Helen
right now.

[Illustration: _Helen King_]

He marked that out with his pencil.

The rest of the days were set down in minute detail.

He checked the medical kit. There were several packets of tablets that
would keep you awake. One tablet an hour every hour for six days. He
felt quite confident.

"Here's mud in your evil eye, Iorr, Tylle!"

He swallowed one of the stay-wake tablets with a scalding mouth of
black coffee.

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, with one thing and another it was Tolstoy or Balzac, gin-rummy,
coffee, tablets, walking, more Tolstoy, more Balzac, more gin-rummy,
more solitaire. The first day passed, as did the second and the third.

On the fourth day he lay quietly in the shade of a rock, counting to a
thousand by fives, then by tens, to keep his mind occupied and awake.
His eyes were so tired he had to bathe them frequently in cool water.
He couldn't read, he was bothered with splitting headaches. He was so
exhausted he couldn't move. He was numb with medicine. He resembled
a waxen dummy, stuffed with things to preserve him in a state of
horrified wakefulness. His eyes were glass, his tongue a rusted pike,
his fingers felt as if they were gloved in needles and fur.

He followed the hand of his watch. One second less to wait, he thought.
Two seconds, three seconds, four, five, ten, thirty seconds. A whole
minute. Now an hour less time to wait. Oh, ship, hurry on thy appointed
round!

He began to laugh softly.

What would happen if he just gave up, drifted off into sleep? Sleep,
ah, sleep; perchance to dream. All the world a stage.... What if he
gave up the unequal struggle, lapsed down?

_Eeeeeeeeeee_, the high, shrill warning sound of battle metal.

He shivered. His tongue moved in his dry, burry mouth.

Iorr and Tylle would battle out their ancient battle.

Leonard Sale would become quite insane.

And whichever won the battle, would take this ruin of an insane man,
the shaking, laughing wild body, and wander it across the face of this
world for ten, twenty years, occupying it, striding in it, pompous,
holding court, making grand gestures, ordering heads severed, calling
on inward unseen dancing girls. Leonard Sale, what remained of him,
would be led off to some hidden cave, there to be infested with wars
and worms of wars for twenty insane years, occupied and prostituted by
old and outlandish thoughts.

When the rescue ship arrived it would find nothing. Sale would be
hidden somewhere by a triumphant army in his head. Hidden in some
cleft of rock, placed there like a nest for Iorr to lie upon in evil
occupation.

The thought of it almost broke him in half.

Twenty years of insanity. Twenty years of torture, doing what you don't
want to do. Twenty years of wars raging and being split apart, twenty
years of nausea and trembling.

His head sank down between his knees. His eyes snapped and cracked and
made soft noises. His eardrum popped tiredly.

_Sleep, sleep_, sang soft sea voices.

I'll--I'll make a proposition with you, listen, thought Leonard Sale.
You, Iorr, you, too, Tylle! Iorr, you can occupy me on Mondays,
Wednesdays and Fridays. Tylle, you can take me over on Sundays,
Tuesdays and Saturdays. Thursday is maid's night out. Okay?

_Eeeeeeeeeeeeee_, sang the sea tides, seething in his brain.

_Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, sang the distant voices softly, soft.

What'll you say, is it a _bargain_, Iorr, Tylle?

_No_, said a voice.

_No_, said another.

Greedy, both of you, greedy! complained Sale. A pox on both your houses!

He slept.

       *       *       *       *       *

He _was_ Iorr, jeweled rings on his hands. He arose beside his rocket
and held out his fingers, commanding blind armies. He was Iorr, ancient
ruler of jeweled warriors.

He _was_ Tylle, lover of women, killer of dogs!

With some hidden bit of awareness, his hand crept to the holster at his
hip. The sleeping hand withdrew the gun there. The hand lifted, the gun
pointed.

The armies of Tylle and Iorr gave battle.

The gun exploded.

The bullet tore across Sale's forehead, wakening him.

He stayed awake for another six hours, getting over his latest siege.
He knew it to be hopeless now. He washed and bandaged the wound he had
given himself. He wished he had aimed straighter and it was all over.
He watched the sky. Two more days. Two more. Come on, ship, come on. He
was heavy with sleeplessness.

No use. At the end of six hours he was raving badly. He took the gun
up and put it down and took it up again, put it against his head,
tightened his hand on the trigger, changed his mind, looked at the sky
again.

Night settled. He tried to read, threw the book away. He tore it up and
burned it, just to have something to do.

So tired. In another hour, he decided. If nothing happens, I'll kill
myself. This is for certain now. I'll _do_ it, this time.

He got the gun ready and laid it on the ground next to himself.

He was very calm now, though tired. It would be over and done. He would
be dead.

He watched the minute hand of his watch. One minute, five minutes,
twenty-five minutes.

The flame appeared on the sky.

It was so unbelievable he started to cry. "A rocket," he said, standing
up. "A rocket!" he cried, rubbing his eyes. He ran forward.

The flame brightened, grew, came down.

He waved frantically, running forward, leaving his gun, his supplies,
everything behind. "You _see_ that, Iorr, Tylle! You savages, you
monsters, I beat you! I _won_! They're coming to rescue me now! I've
won, damn you."

He laughed harshly at the rocks and the sky and the backs of his hands.

The rocket landed. Leonard Sale stood swaying, waiting for the door to
lid open.

"Goodbye, Iorr, goodbye, Tylle!" he shouted in triumph, grinning, eyes
hot.

_Eeeeee_, sang a diminishing roar in time.

_Ahhhhhh_, voices faded.

The rocket flipped wide its air-lock. Two men jumped out.

"Sale?" they called. "We're Ship ACDN13. Intercepted your SOS and
decided to pick you up ourselves. The Marsport ship won't get through
until day after tomorrow. We want a spot of rest ourselves. Thought
it'd be good to spend the night here, pick you up, and go on."

"No," said Sale, face melting with terror. "No spend night--"

He couldn't talk. He fell to the ground.

"Quick," said a voice, in the bleary vortex over him. "Give him a shot
of food liquid, another of sedative. He needs sustenance and rest."

"No rest!" screamed Sale.

"Delirious," said one man softly.

"No sleep!" screamed Sale.

"There, there," said the man gently. A needle poked into Sale's arm.

Sale thrashed. "No sleep, go!" he mouthed horribly. "Oh, go!"

"Delirious," said one man. "Shock."

"No _sedative_!" screamed Sale.

The sedative flowed into him.

_Eeeeeeeeeeee_, sang the ancient winds.

_Ahhhhhhhhhhhh_, sang the ancient seas.

"No sedative, no sleep, please, don't, don't, _don't_!" screamed Sale,
trying to get up. "You don't--understand!"

"Take it easy, old man, you're safe among us now, nothing to worry
about," said the rescuer above him.

Leonard Sale slept. The two men stood over him.

As they watched, Sale's features changed violently. He groaned and
cried and snarled in his sleep. His face was riven with emotion. It was
the face of a saint, a sinner, a fiend, a monster, a darkness, a light,
one, many, an army, a vacuum, all, all!

He writhed in his sleep.

_Eeeeeeeeee!_ the sound burst from his mouth. _Ahhhhhhhhhhh!_ he
screamed.

"What's wrong with him?" asked one of the two rescuers.

"I don't know. More sedative?"

"More sedative. Nerves. He needs more sleep."

They stuck the needle in his arm. Sale writhed and spat and moaned.

Then, suddenly, he was dead.

He lay there, the two men over him. "What a shame," said one of them.
"Can you figure that?"

"Shock. Poor guy. What a pity." They covered his face. "Did you ever
see a face like that?"

"Totally insane."

"Loneliness. Shock."

"Yes. Lord, what an expression. I hope never to see a face like _that_
again."

"What a shame, waiting for us, and we arrive, and he dies anyway."

They glanced around. "What shall we do? Shall we spend the night?"

"Yes. It's good to be out of the ship."

"We'll bury him first, of course."

"Naturally."

"And spend the night in the open, with good air, right? Good to be in
the open again. After two weeks in that damned ship."

"Right. I'll find a spot for him. You start supper, eh?"

"Done."

"Should be good sleeping tonight."

"Fine, fine."

They made a grave and said a word over it. They drank their evening
coffee silently. They smelled the sweet air of the planet and looked at
the lovely sky and the bright and beautiful stars.

"What a night," they said, lying down.

"Pleasant dreams," said one, rolling over.

And the other replied, "Pleasant dreams."

They slept.