the black girl (still serene, preening her nakedness): Yes, and you'll enjoy every red-hot second of it, won't you?
Affronted beyond bearing, Gott sent chopping rays at her over the Plutarch parapet, but at that instant a black figure, thin as a spider, shot up behind the sofa and reaching over the Black Girl's shoulder brushed aside the chopping rays with one flick of a whiplike arm. Grown from the black putty Gott had overlooked under the sofa, the figure was that of an old conjure woman, stick-thin with limbs like wires and breasts like dangling ropes, face that was a pack of spearheads with black ostrich plumes a-quiver above it.
the black crone (in a whistling voice like a hungry wind): Injure one of the girls. Mister Adler, and I'll castrate you, I'll shrivel you with spells. You'll never be able to call them up again, no matter how far a trip you go on, or even pleasure your wife.
gott (frightened, but not showing it): Keep your arms and legs on, Mother. Flossie and I were only teasing each other. Vicious play is a specialty of your house, isn't it?
With a deep groaning cry the furnace fan switched on in the basement and began to say over and over again in a low rapid rumble, "Oh, my God, my God, my God. Demons, demons, demons, demons." Jane heard the warning very clearly, but she didn't want to lose the glow of her feelings. She asked, "Are you all right out there in space, Heinie?" and thought he nodded "Yes." She began to colour the Clubhouse in the Tree — blue roof, red walls, a little like Chagall.
the black crone (continuing a tirade): Understand this, Mr. Adler, you don't own us, we own you. Because you gotta have the girls to live, you're the girls' slave.
the black girl: He-he! Shall I call Susie and Belle? They've never been here either, and they'd enjoy this.
the black crone: Later, if he's humble. You understand me, Slave? If I tell you have your wife cook dinner for the girls or wash their feet or watch you snuggle with them, then you gotta do it. And your boy gotta run our errands. Come over here now and sit by Flossie while I brand you with dry ice.
Gott quaked, for the Crone's arms were lengthening toward him like snakes, and he began to sweat, and he murmured, "God in Heaven," and the smell of fear went out of him to the walls — millions of stinking molecules.
A cold wind blew over the fence of Heinie's space road and the stars wavered and then fled before it like diamond leaves.
Jane caught the murmur and the fear-whiff too, but she was colouring the Clubhouse windows a warm rich yellow; so what she said in a rather loud, rapt, happy voice was: "I think Heaven is like a children's clubhouse. The only people there are the ones you remember from childhood — either because you were in childhood with them or they told you about their childhood honestly. The real people."
At the word real the Black Crone and the Black Girl strangled and began to bend and melt like a thin candle and a thicker one over a roaring fire.
Heinie turned his spaceship around and began to drive it bravely homeward through the unspeckled dark, following the ghostly white line that marked the centre of the road. He thought of himself as the cat they'd had. Papa had told him stories of the cat coming back — from downtown, from Pittsburgh, from Los Angeles, from the moon. Cats could do that. He was the cat coming back.
Jane put down her brush and took up her pencil once more. She'd noticed that the two children swinging out farthest weren't attached yet to their swings. She started to hook them up, then hesitated. Wasn't it all right for some of the children to go sailing out to the stars? Wouldn't it be nice for some evening world — maybe the late-afternoon moon — to have a shower of babies? She wished a plane would crawl over the roof of the house and drone out an answer to her question. She didn't like to have to do all the wondering by herself. It made her feel guilty.
"Gott," she said, "why don't you at least finish the last story you were writing? The one about the Elephants' Graveyard." Then she wished she hadn't mentioned it, because it was an idea that had scared Heinie.
"Some day," her husband murmured, Jane thought.
Gott felt weak with relief, though he was forgetting why. Balancing his head carefully over his book, he drained the next to the last of the martini water. It always got stronger toward the bottom. He looked at the page through the lower halves of his executive bifocals and for a moment the word 'Caesar' came up in letters an inch high, each jet serif showing its tatters and the white paper its ridgy fibers. Then, still never moving his head, he looked through the upper halves and saw the long thick blob of dull black putty on the wavering blue couch and automatically gathered the putty together and with thumb-and-palm rays swiftly shaped the Old Philosopher in the Black Toga, always an easy figure to sculpt since he was never finished, but rough-hewn in the style of Rodin or Daumier. It was always good to finish up an evening with the Old Philosopher.
The white line in space tried to fade. Heinie steered his ship closer to it. He remembered that in spite of Papa's stories, the cat had never come back.
Jane held her pencil poised over the detached children swinging out from the Clubhouse. One of them had a leg kicked over the moon.
the philosopher (adjusting his craggy toga and yawning): The topic for tonight's symposium is that vast container of all, the Void.
gott (condescendingly): The Void? That's interesting. Lately I've wished to merge with it. Life wearies me.
A smiling dull black skull, as crudely shaped as the Philosopher looked over the latter's shoulder and then rose higher on a rickety black bone framework.
death (quietly, to Gott): Really?
gott (greatly shaken, but keeping up a front): I am on a black kick tonight. Can't even do a white skeleton, Disintegrate, you two. You bore me almost as much as life.
death: Really? If you did not cling to life like a limpet, you would have crashed your car, to give your wife and son the insurance, when National Motors fired you. You planned to do that. Remember?
gott (with hysterical coolness): Maybe I should have cast you in brass or aluminum. Then you'd at least have brightened things up. But it's too late now. Disintegrate quickly and don't leave any scraps around.
death: Much too late. Yes, you planned to crash your car and doubly indemnify your dear ones. You had the spot picked, but your courage failed you.
gott (blustering): I'll have you know I am not only Gottfried but also Helmuth — Hell's Courage Adler!
the philosopher (confused but trying to keep in the conversation): A most swashbuckling sobriquet.
death: Hell's courage failed you on the edge of the ravine. (Pointing at Gott a three-fingered thumbless hand like a black winter branch) Do you wish to die now?
gott (blacking out visually): Cowards die many times. (Draining the last of the martini water in absolute darkness.) The valiant taste death once. Caesar.
death (a voice in darkness): Coward. Yet you summoned me — and even though you fashioned me poorly, I am indeed Death — and there are others besides yourself who take long trips. Even longer ones. Trips in the Void.