Illustrated by BURCHARD
Why were they apologetic? Itwasn't their fault that theycame to Earth much too late.
The beings stood aroundmy bed in air suits like ski suits,with globes over theirheads like upside-down fishbowls.It was all like a masquerade, withodd costumes and funny masks.
I know that the masks aretheir faces, but I argue with themand find I think as if I am arguingwith humans behind themasks. They are people. I recognizepeople and whether I amgoing to like this person or thatperson by something in the waythey move and how they get excitedwhen they talk; and I knowthat I like these people in amotherly sort of way. You haveto feel motherly toward them, Iguess.
They all remind me of Ronny,a medical student I knew once.He was small and round andeager. You had to like him, butyou couldn't take him very seriously.He was a pacifist; he wrotepoetry and pulled it out to readaloud at ill-timed moments; andhe stuttered when he talked toofast.
They are like that, all frightand gentleness.
I am not the only survivor—theyhave explained that—butI am the first they found,and the least damaged, the onethey have chosen to represent thehuman race to them. They standaround my bed and answer questions,and are nice to me when Iargue with them.
All in a group they look half-waybetween a delegation of nationsand an ark, one of each, bigand small, thick and thin, fourarms or wings, all shapes andcolors in fur and skin and feathers.
I can picture them in theirUN of the Universe, makingspeeches in their different languages,listening patiently withoutunderstanding each other'sdifferent problems, boring eachother and being too polite toyawn.
They are polite, so polite I almostfeel they are afraid of me,and I want to reassure them.
But I talk as if I were angry.I can't help it, because if thingshad only been a little different ... "Whycouldn't you have comesooner? Why couldn't you havetried to stop it before it happened,or at least come sooner, afterward...?"
If they had come sooner towhere the workers of the Nevadapower pile starved slowly behindtheir protecting walls of lead—ifthey had looked sooner forsurvivors of the dust with whichthe nations of the world had slaineach other—George Craig wouldbe alive. He died before theycame. He was my co-worker, andI loved him.
We had gone down together,passing door by door the automaticsafeguards of the plant,which were supposed to protectthe people on the outside fromthe radioactive danger from theinside—but the danger of afailure of politics was far morereal than the danger of failurein the science of the power pile,and that had not been calculatedby the builders. We were far undergroundwhen the first radioactivityin the air outside hadshut all the heavy, lead-shieldedautomatic doors between us andthe outside.
We were safe. And we starvedthere.
"Why didn't you come sooner?"I wonder if they know or guesshow I feel. My questions are notquestions, but I have to ask them.He is dead. I don't mean to reproachthem—they look wellmeaning and kindly—but I feelas if, somehow, knowing why ithappened could make it stop,could let me turn the clock backand make it happen differently. IfI could have signaled them, sothey would have come just a littlesooner.
They look at one another, turningtheir funny-face heads uneasily,moving back and forth,but no one will answer.
The world is dead.... Georgeis dead, that