Barbara laughed.
“Why are you laughing?” Carl turned toward her.
“No reason.”
“I used to read a lot of those stories. I have made a study of them. As near as I can tell, the first one of that type was written about nineteen-ten by George Allen England. It was a huge book called Darkness and Dawn. Nobody today remembers it.”
“How did you come across it?”
“Oh, I found a copy in an old book store. That was a long time ago. When I was about thirteen. I don’t remember very much about it. Except that the girl had long hair. And that—that their clothing had rotted away during all the years they were in suspended animation. And when she got up all her clothes fell away in pieces.”
“Well, that’s something to file away in your mind.”
Carl nodded. “I guess so. Funny I remember that.”
“Maybe sometime it’ll turn out to be useful. A bit of information like that.”
Carl gazed at her owlishly. Barbara smiled at him, her cigarette held loosely against her lips. She blew smoke lazily toward him. The smoke circled around him, dissolving in the air.
“Cigarette smoke looks so odd here,” Carl said.
“Why?”
“We’re so far from things like that. Cigarettes and radios and movies and bathtubs. All the things that go to make up our world.” He gestured back the way they had come. “There it is down there. Our world. Like a little postage stamp, a little square behind us. And someday it’ll be gone.”
“I guess so.”
“And soon. Only a few days. They’ll be here in a few days. And that’ll be the end.”
“Why? Are they going to burn it all up?”
“It doesn’t matter. For us, it’s the end.”
Barbara shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Whatever they do, it’s the end for us. Because it won’t be ours anymore. To do with as we want. It’s only your world and my world as long as we have power over it. In a few days the power will pass from us into other hands. Then we’ll leave. The three of us.”
Barbara stubbed out her cigarette. “Do we have to talk about it? It depresses me.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s so much like death.”
Carl grunted. “It is, isn’t it? But death is strange. You never know where it’ll come from.” He looked up at the sky. “For instance, a bird might drop half a clam shell down on us and kill one of us.”
“Does that happen?”
“Once in a long while.”
“Why would a bird be carrying a clam shell, for God’s sake?” She lit a new cigarette.
“They take them up high to drop them on something. A stone, something hard. To break them open.”
“We’re a long way from the ocean.”
“That’s true. I guess it won’t happen, then.”
They were silent for a time, each of them deep in thought.
Finally Carl roused himself. He shuffled through the pages of his manuscript. “I guess I could start.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll just read parts here and there. I don’t want to bore you. It’s all the philosophical notions I’ve picked up, from time to time. As soon as you’re tired of hearing them, just nod to me and I’ll stop.”
“Okay.”
Carl folded a leaf back, clearing his throat. He wiped his upper lip nervously. “Shall I start?”
“Yes, start.”
Carl began to read, slowly, carefully, his voice low and intent.
After he had read for a long time he suddenly put the manuscript down and gazed over at Barbara.
Barbara stirred. “Go on.”
“How does it seem to you?”
“Fine.”
“I’m skipping quite a lot, of course. I mainly want to give you the conclusions.”
“So far it sounds fine.”
“I’ll read you some more, then.”
Carl read on. Above them, great clouds drifted across the sky, covering the sun. The air turned cold.
When Carl stopped to turn a page Barbara reached out and touched his arm.
“What is it?” Carl blinked.
“I’m freezing.”
“You are?”
“I sure am.” She scrambled to her feet. “The fog’s in.”
Carl gaped up at her. “Are you going?”
“I think we should go back. We can read some more later on.” She held out her hand. “I’ll help you up.”
Carl was crestfallen. “I’m afraid you were bored.”
“Bored, hell! I’m cold and damp, and I’m beginning to get hungry.”
“Hungry? Really?” He got up slowly, gathering together all his papers and string and wrappers. Barbara caught hold of his hand, pulling him toward her. “Thanks.”
Her hand was firm and small. He could feel her hard nails against his skin. He let go suddenly.
“What’s the matter?” Barbara said.
“Nothing.” Carl wrapped up his manuscript and tied the cord around it. He pushed it under his arm and turned toward her. “All finished.”
Barbara began to brush bits of leaves and grass from her clothes. Carl watched. Presently he made a move to help, patting her gingerly with his big broad hand.
Barbara stopped, rigid.
“Did I hit you?” Carl said.
“No. I’m jumpy.”
They looked at each other. Barbara smiled a little. Carl circled around her. “I’m sorry if I hit you.”
“No. You didn’t.” She finished brushing herself off. “Come on. Back down to civilization.”
Carl nodded, falling in beside her. They made their way back the direction they had come.
“I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I?” Barbara asked.
“No.”
She glanced at him. He was trudging along, his eyes on the ground, his face blank. Was he mad at her? Had she hurt his feelings? It was hard to tell; she knew so little about him.
“Watch your step,” Carl murmured.
Dirt and leaves rained down the slope ahead of them, dislodged by Carl’s huge shoes. He jumped down onto some big roots, helping her down beside him. He was strong. She could feel how strong he was. It was in his hands and arms. In his shoulders. She had felt it when he tried to brush her off. He had struck at her awkwardly, clumsily. Like some sort of big kindly animal. It was the strength of youth. Carl was very young.
But not really so young. Not much younger than she was. She had forgotten how young she was; she had thought for so long about her age, not her youth. Carl was not more than a few years younger than she. Not even that much. They were almost the same age. It was hard to believe, but it was so.
They were the same age, but their lives had not been the same. What kind of life had Carl lived? Books and stamps and microscope slides. A world of ideas. But that was not all. If it had been all, Carl would have gone on and become a biologist. He would still be peering through his microscope at his slides. No, there was more. He had lost faith in those things. Not completely, but somewhat. Enough so that he had given up his way of life. His roomful of stamps and books and maps and whatever else he had mentioned.
And in their place, what? What instead? What had he done? What had there been that he had not told her about? She watched him as he strode down, kicking dirt and leaves out of his way. It was hard to tell about him. Maybe he had done things he had not told her about. Things with women. But it was hard to imagine him with a woman. Very hard. It was not possible. He would have run away. She tried to picture him, the great blond boy, his cheeks red, his heart beating—
It could never happen. He would run off.
But she had been mistaken about another man. She had not understood him, and her misunderstanding had worked against her. This other man had appealed to her, too. But he had been very different from Carl. He had not been large; Verne was small and slender. And he was older, not younger than she. Verne was not some friendly, excited animal. He was crafty and cynical, behind his horn-rimmed glasses, with his pipe and his talk and his thin, nervous hands.