The LEGACY

                             By DICK HANK

          _Many writers have tried to capture the essence of
           man's nuclear fate. Here a new writer, working in
         what amounts to blank verse, captures our imagination
           in an experimental--but heart-touching vignette._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                     Amazing Stories August 1961.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The Great War ended; the land cooled; and the dawn came. The sun's red
rays moved North and South, as shadows pointed West. The Eastern sky
brightened white, as shadows shimmered shorter.

The last man watched the shadows move, as day began again. He saw
around him rubble sent by man in progress--ended. The remnants near,
void of shape--purpose lost in flaming heat. A desert made by man's
great flight--to moon, and stars--unreached.

The sun moved up, piercing haze; cloudless; blueless; quiet. The
brightness grew--not much at first--and wastelands showed their wares.
Depression came, the last man moved, toward the peace of purpose. No
friend was left, of this he knew, but man had left a _legacy_. "Oh
universe; you stay in tact, and yet my earth is ruined. Earth within
the solar womb--aborted now, and dying. What is there now to write on
stone, when ground contains thy bones?"

The last man walked down dusty roads, bounded there by morter-brick. To
his right a farmland once, no rooster crowed to wake the harvest. The
house once white; with red barn near--was ground, and dust by cattle
hoof. He crossed a bridge that stayed in tact, and looked below at
floating flesh. Blood once red, had turned to brown--as did the once
green land.

The road moved on, he followed course--remembering the beauty. Beauty
then, but now it passed, as scent became a rotting thing. The dust
moved up as foot came down, and thought he did of burning. No atom left
by flames intense--no atom but the dust he tread.

"Oh friends below," he spoke in passing, "pardon my traversing. I
cannot see how other roads could leave me less offending--unless of
course--the road I chose is dusted with thy enemy."

       *       *       *       *       *

The road moved East, bounded there by lamp posts melted. The last man
walked, his shadow pointed, on, and on to city crumbled. The building
there shorter now, but that was as it should be. Not one was left, that
stood above--to rule--and litter _lesser_ ones. The air moved thick
with activeness, the last man knew _its_ purpose. Death was near, of
this he knew, but _purpose_ had he also. Find he would the truth of
man--his _legacy of living_. Men lived here, but now _man_ walked--in
search of purpose written.

"Those that come," the last man spoke, "must know of man--his
_greatness_."

The last man searched each crater now, for treasures saved from
burning. He finished this as shadows searched; moving East in passing.
The last man walked, his treasure gathered; found a bank and entered
it. He walked amid the roof-less thing, shaded some by walls still
standing. He reached the vault, and stepped inside, each treasure found
was taken too. He placed each one by walls of steel, closed the door,
and locked it tight. Man _must_ have a legacy, and on the wall he wrote:

"GATHERED HERE ARE WORKS OF MAN; THAT YOU THAT COME MAY KNOW HIM. THE
NAMES OF EACH; (the last man writes,) THE ITEM LAYS BENEATH IT.

"Coke Bottles; Golf Balls; Lip Stick Cases; Powder Puffs.

"Soda Straws; Nurses Shoes; Prophylactics; Aerosels.

"HiFi Records; Cowboy Boots; Living Bras; and _Neon Signs_."

The man in dying took one _sign_, and placed it by itself. Alone it
stood--in reverence--above it were these words:

"'JESUS SAVES,' THIS ONE SAYS, BUT FAILED TO TELL US _HOW_."


THE END