“Inventions,” Verne said. “Looks like Menlo Park.”
Dust was already beginning to settle over all the crates and exhibits. The three of them stood looking around glumly, none of them speaking for a time.
“Just think,” Carl said. “They spent years bringing all this stuff here and now it’s abandoned. It’s all left here, left behind. Forgotten.”
“Maybe the yuks can use them.”
“Probably burn them,” Verne murmured.
“What a depressing sight,” Carl said. “It gives me the creeps. Imagine what the people who invented and made all these things would say if they could see them lying here, piled on top of each other, no order, no meaning, completely abandoned.”
Barbara began to root through one of the heaps.
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. Something I can use.”
“What do you want?”
Barbara straightened up. “I have nothing in mind. There ought to be something here we can use. Look at it all. Tons of things. Every kind of thing.”
“Let’s go,” Carl said. He moved toward the door.
“Don’t you want to fill your pockets?”
“No. It—it reminds me of when I was a kid. I had a room full of things. Microscope, stamp album, maps, model steam engine. Like this. Everything strewn all around. There’s something wrong with it.”
“Well, we can’t take anything back with us,” Verne said. “These things don’t really belong to us. But we could use them, during the time we have left.”
“There’s too many. Too much stuff. Let’s forget it. Let’s just let it go. It’s dusty in here.”
“It would make a nice bonfire. Especially all the books. What a blaze.”
“We could tear out the last page of each book,” Carl said. “Think of the power we three have. We could tear out the last pages, we could tinker with all this stuff so none of it would work. Then the yuks would never be able to use anything. Or understand anything. They’d give up. They’d finally have to throw this all way What power we have.”
“They’ll probably throw it away anyhow,” Verne said. “This stuff doesn’t mean anything anymore. Except maybe as museum pieces. We have power over a lot of useless objects.”
They went back through the library, into the dining room, into the kitchen. •
In the kitchen Verne halted. “There’s one thing I want to take a look at.”
“What’s that?”
“His phonograph records. I might find something good. It’s worth a try.”
Carl grinned. “So there’s something that isn’t just a museum piece.”
“I’m going outside,” Barbara said. “There’s too much dust in here.” She touched one of the half-opened crates. “Dust on them, and they’re not even opened yet. This stuff is already decaying, and it’s hardly been used.”
Carl pushed the back door open. “Come on. Let’s go.” He stood by the door and Barbara came toward him.
“I’ll see you later,” Verne said. He disappeared back into the dining room.
Barbara and Carl stepped outside, down the back stairs, onto the path. The air was warm and full of smells of flowers and grass.
Carl took a deep breath. “Smells good.”
Barbara bent down, examining a flower. “What’s this?”
Carl did not know. “Looks like some sort of rose. Only it’s so small.”
Barbara picked the flower. “Well? What’ll we do? Where’ll we go?”
“We could sit on the grass.”
Barbara smiled. “Could we?”
“Don’t you like to sit on the grass? When the sun’s warm, and the air’s full of smells. I’m tired of running all over the place. I’ve done enough exploring.”
“You were so excited about the manager’s house. Now you’re not interested in it at all.”
“I know. But there’s something depressing about it. All those things. All those books and inventions and plates and egg dicers. Everything, stacks and crates and heaps, all strewn around. All abandoned. I’d rather be outside.”
Barbara studied his face. “You change your mind fast.”
“There was something about it—”
“I know,” Barbara said. “All right. Let’s sit on the grass in the sun. I guess it won’t do any harm.”
“But is it wet?” Carl ran his hands through the grass. “Not any more. It’s all dried out.”
They sat down gingerly, stiff-backed. The grass was warm and dry under them.
Barbara sighed. “It makes me sleepy, the sun and the air.”
“How did you sleep last night?”
“All right.”
“It was certainly quiet last night. I never realized how many sounds and noises there were around here. The people, the machinery. Things coming and going. Trucks. But last night there was nothing. Only silence. It gave me a strange feeling. It was so—so unnatural. After so many years of hearing things it’s hard to get used to this. I wonder if we will get used to it, ever. It’s a big change for us. I wonder if this is one of those moments in history when people will look back, years later, and realize that the whole world hung in the balance. Civilization on trial. Like the fall of Rome. Or when they stopped the Turks at Vienna. Or when the Moors came up into Spain. Roland. Remember Roland? How they stopped the Moors? Or Stalingrad. The end of Germany. History hanging in the balance.”
He glanced at Barbara. Barbara was gazing up at the sky. A few faint trails of mist had come up and were blowing slowly along, white streamers mixed with the blue.
“It’s getting cooler,” Barbara said.
“The fog.”
“We’ll sleep better tonight.”
Carl considered this proposition. “Do you suppose that if a person got less and less sleep each night—say he started with the full eight hours, and then he slept just under eight hours, then just a little less than that— that after a long enough time he could do without sleep completely? Somebody ought to experiment along those lines. It might turn out to be a major contribution to science.”
“I like to sleep,” Barbara said.
“There’s something to that, all right. We should never forget the positive value of sleep. You know, often we wish that things like death and sleep could be gotten rid of, but have you ever thought what it would be like to have to face the world all the time, not just three quarters of the time? Every hour of the day and night. During sleep the whole system is rejuvenated. Especially the brain. All the poisons that have accumulated during the waking hours are flushed out Carried off by the blood. And if there were no sleep the peasants would have to work twenty-four hours a day instead of twelve. And if there were no death there would never be any escape for them.”
“I suppose,” Barbara said indifferently. She leaned back, stretching herself out on the grass, her eyes closed.
“Is that comfortable?” Carl asked.
“The sun’s in my eyes. It looks all red.”
“That’s the blood in the capillaries of your eye lids. The sun is shining through them.”
“Anyhow it’s a beautiful red.”
“Blood, fresh blood, is an amazing color. But as soon as it strikes the air it darkens and looks unhealthy. On the other hand, blood that has been exhausted of air turns a dark purple. It’s blood coming from the lungs that’s so fresh and red looking. Blood in the veins.”
“Is that so.”
“I guess it’s not very important. Can I lay back down with you?”
“If you want.”
Carl lay back on the grass, resting his head on his arm, a short distance from Barbara.
“You’re interested in a lot of things,” Barbara said.
“I guess I am.”
“In a way I wish I had your enthusiasm. It’s been a year since I read a whole book. I start reading, but I don’t finish anything. I haven’t done any real reading since I was in school. I used to read all the time, then. Books and books. Like the girl in the ad.”