This Crowded Earth

by Robert Bloch

  Produced by Greg Weeks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net

  Transcriber's note:

  This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories October1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.

  The Table of Contents is not part of the original book.

  AMAZING STORIES

  SCIENCE FICTION NOVEL

  THIS

  CROWDED

  EARTH

  By ROBERT BLOCH

  ILLUSTRATOR FINLAY

  BOOK-LENGTH NOVEL COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE

  * * * * *

  CONTENTS

  1. Harry Collins--19972. Harry Collins--19983. President Winthrop--19994. Harry Collins--20005. Minnie Schultz--20096. Harry Collins--20127. Michael Cavendish--20278. Harry Collins--20299. Eric Donovan--203110. Harry Collins--203211. Jesse Pringle--203912. Littlejohn--2065

  * * * * *

  1. Harry Collins--1997

  The evils of long and dangerous years finally eruptedin blood.]

  The telescreen lit up promptly at eight a.m. Smiling Brad came on withhis usual greeting. "Good morning--it's a beautiful day in Chicagee!"

  Harry Collins rolled over and twitched off the receiver. "This Idoubt," he muttered. He sat up and reached into the closet for hisclothing.

  Visitors--particularly feminine ones--were always exclaiming over theadvantages of Harry's apartment. "So convenient," they would say."Everything handy, right within reach. And think of all the extrasteps you save!"

  Of course most of them were just being polite and trying to cheerHarry up. They knew damned well that he wasn't living in one roomthrough any choice of his own. The Housing Act was something you justcouldn't get around; not in Chicagee these days. A bachelor wasentitled to one room--no more and no less. And even though Harry wasmaking a speedy buck at the agency, he couldn't hope to beat theregulations.

  There was only one way to beat them and that was to get married.Marriage would automatically entitle him to two rooms--_if_ he couldfind them someplace.

  More than a few of his feminine visitors had hinted at just that, butHarry didn't respond. Marriage was no solution, the way he figured it.He knew that he couldn't hope to locate a two-room apartment anycloser than eighty miles away. It was bad enough driving forty milesto and from work every morning and night without doubling thedistance. If he did find a bigger place, that would mean a three-hourtrip each way on one of the commutrains, and the commutrains weremurder. The Black Hole of Calcutta, on wheels.

  But then, everything was murder, Harry reflected, as he stepped fromthe toilet to the sink, from the sink to the stove, from the stove tothe table.

  Powdered eggs for breakfast. That was murder, too. But it was a fast,cheap meal, easy to prepare, and the ingredients didn't waste a lot ofstorage space. The only trouble was, he hated the way they tasted.Harry wished he had time to eat his breakfasts in a restaurant. Hecould afford the price, but he couldn't afford to wait in line morethan a half-hour or so. His office schedule at the agency startedpromptly at ten-thirty. And he didn't get out until three-thirty; itwas a long, hard five-hour day. Sometimes he wished he worked in theNew Philly area, where a four-hour day was the rule. But he supposedthat wouldn't mean any real saving in time, because he'd have to livefurther out. What was the population in New Philly now? Something like63,000,000, wasn't it? Chicagee was much smaller--only 38,000,000,this year.

  _This_ year. Harry shook his head and took a gulp of the Instantea.Yes, this year the population was 38,000,000, and the boundaries ofthe community extended north to what used to be the old Milwaukee andsouth past Gary. What would it be like _next_ year, and the yearfollowing?

  Lately that question had begun to haunt Harry. He couldn't quitefigure out why. After all, it was none of his business, really. He hada good job, security, a nice place just two hours from the Loop. Heeven drove his own car. What more could he ask?

  And why did he have to start the day like this, with a blindingheadache?

  Harry finished his Instantea and considered the matter. Yes, it wasbeginning again, just as it had on almost every morning for the pastmonth. He'd sit down at the table, eat his usual breakfast, and end upwith a headache. Why?

  It wasn't the food; for a while he'd deliberately varied his diet, butthat didn't make any difference. And he'd had his usual monthlycheckup not more than ten days ago, only to be assured there wasnothing wrong with him. Still, the headaches persisted. Every morning,when he'd sit down and jerk his head to the left like this--

  That was it. Jerking his head to the left. It always seemed to triggerthe pain. But why? And where had he picked up this habit of jerkinghis head to the left?

  Harry didn't know.

  He glanced at his watch. It was almost nine, now. High time that hegot started. He reached over to the interapartment video and dialledthe garage downstairs.

  "Bill," he said. "Can you bring my car around to Number Three?"

  The tiny face in the hand-screen grinned sheepishly. "Mr. Collins,ain't it? Gee, I'm sorry, Mr. Collins. Night crew took on a new man,he must have futzed around with the lists, and I can't find yournumber."

  Harry sighed. "It's one-eight-seven-three-dash-five," he said. "Lightblue Pax, two-seater. Do you want the license number, too?"

  "No, just your parking number. I'll recognize it when I see it. ButGod only knows what level it's on. That night man really--"

  "Never mind," Harry interrupted. "How soon?"

  "Twenty minutes or so. Maybe half an hour."

  "Half an hour? I'll be late. Hurry it up!"

  Harry clicked the video and shook his head. Half an hour! Well, youhad to expect these things if you wanted to be independent and do yourown driving today. If he wanted to work his priority through theoffice, he could get his application honored on the I.C. Line within amonth. But the I.C. was just another commutrain, and he couldn't takeit. Standing and swaying for almost two hours, fighting the crowds,battling his way in and out of the sidewalk escalators. Besides, therewas always the danger of being crushed. He'd seen an old man trampledto death on a Michigan Boulevard escalator-feeder, and he'd neverforgotten it.

  Being afraid was only a partial reason for his reluctance to change.The worst thing, for Harry, was the thought of all those people; theforced bodily contact, the awareness of smothered breathing, odors,and the crushing confinement of flesh against flesh. It was bad enoughin the lines, or on the streets. The commutrain was just too much.

  Yet, as a small boy, Harry could remember the day when he'd loved suchtrips. Sitting there looking out of the window as the scenery whirledpast--that was always a thrill when you were a little kid. How longago had that been? More than twenty years, wasn't it?

  Now there weren't any seats, and no windows. Which was just as well,probably, because the scenery didn't whirl past any more, either.Instead, there was a stop at every station on the line, and a constantbattle as people jockeyed for position to reach the exit-doors intime.

  No, the car was better.

  Harry reached for a container in the cabinet and poured out a coupleof aspirystamines. That ought to help the headache. At least until hegot to the office. Then he could start with the daily quota ofyellowjackets. Meanwhile, getting out on the street might help him,too. A shame there wasn't a window in this apartment, but then, whatgood would it do, really? All he could see through it would be thenext apartment.r />
  He shrugged and picked up his coat. Nine-thirty, time to godownstairs. Maybe the car would be located sooner than Bill hadpromised; after all, he had nine assistants, and not everybody went towork on this first daylight shift.

  Harry walked down the hall and punched the elevator button. He lookedat the indicator, watched the red band move towards the numeral ofthis floor, then sweep past it.

  "Full up!" he muttered. "Oh, well."

  He reached out and touched both sides of the corridor. That wasanother thing he disliked; these narrow corridors. Two people couldscarcely squeeze past one another without touching. Of course, it didsave space to build apartments this way, and space was at a premium.But Harry couldn't get used to it. Now he remembered some of the oldbuildings that were still around when he was a little boy--

  The headache seemed to be getting worse instead of better. Harrylooked at the indicator above the other elevator entrance. The redband was crawling upward, passing him to stop on 48. That was the topfloor. Now it was moving down, down; stopping on 47, 46, 45, 44, 43,and--here it was!

  "Stand back, please!" said the tape. Harry did his best to oblige, butthere wasn't much room. A good two dozen of his upstairs neighborsjammed the compartment. Harry thought he recognized one or two of themen, but he couldn't be sure. There were so many people, so manyfaces. After a while it got so they all seemed to look alike. Yes, andbreathed alike, and felt alike when you were squeezed up against them,and you were always being squeezed up against them, wherever you went.And you could smell them, and hear them wheeze and cough, and you wentfalling down with them into a bottomless pit where your head began tothrob and throb and it was hard to move away from all that heat andpressure. It was hard enough just to keep from screaming--

  Then the door opened and Harry was catapulted out into the lobby. Themob behind him pushed and clawed because they were in a hurry; theywere always in a hurry these days, and if you got in their way they'dtrample you down like that old man had been trampled down; there wasno room for one man in a crowd any more.

  Harry blinked and shook his head.

  He gripped the edge of the wall and clung there in an effort to avoidbeing swept out of the lobby completely. His hands were sticky withperspiration. They slipped off as he slowly inched his way backthrough the crush of the mob.

  "Wait for me!" he called. "Wait for me, I'm going down!" But his voicewas lost in the maelstrom of sound just as his body was lost in themaelstrom of motion. Besides, an automatic elevator cannot hear. It ismerely a mechanism that goes up and down, just like the othermechanisms that go in and out, or around and around, and you getcaught up in them the way a squirrel gets caught in a squirrel-cageand you race and race, and the best you can hope for is to keep upwith the machinery.

  The elevator door clanged shut before Harry could reach it. He waitedfor another car to arrive, and this time he stood aside as the crowdemerged, then darted in behind them.

  The car descended to the first garage level, and Harry stood gulpinggratefully in the comparative isolation. There weren't more than tenpeople accompanying him.

  He emerged on the ramp, gave his number to the attendant, and waved atBill in his office. Bill seemed to recognize him; at least he nodded,briefly. No sense trying to talk--not in this sullen subterranea,filled with the booming echo of exhausts, the despairing shriek ofbrakes. Headlights flickered in the darkness as cars whirled past,ascending and descending on the loading platforms. The signal systemswinked from the walls, and tires screeched defiance to the warningbells.

  Old-fashioned theologians, Harry remembered, used to argue whetherthere really was a Hell, and if so, had it been created by God or theDevil? Too bad they weren't around today to get an answer to theirquestions. There _was_ a Hell, and it had been created by GeneralMotors.

  Harry's temples began to throb. Through blurred eyes, he saw theattendant beckoning him down the line to a platform marked _Check-Out#3_. He stood there with a cluster of others, waiting.

  What was the matter with him today, anyway? First the headache, andnow his feet were hurting. Standing around waiting, that's what didit. This eternal waiting. When he was a kid, the grownups were alwayscomplaining about the long seven-hour work days and how they cut intotheir leisure time. Well, maybe they had reason to gripe, but at leastthere _was_ some leisure before work began or after it was through.Now that extra time was consumed in waiting. Standing in line,standing in crowds, wearing yourself out doing nothing.

  Still, this time it wasn't really so bad. Within ten minutes the lightblue Pax rolled up before him. Harry climbed in as the attendant slidout from behind the wheel and prepared to leave.

  Then a fat man appeared, running along the ramp. He gestured wildlywith a plump thumb. Harry nodded briefly, and the fat man hurledhimself into the seat beside him and slammed the door.

  They were off. Harry read the signals impatiently, waiting for thegreen _Go_. The moment he saw it he gunned his motor and got the carup to twenty-two and zipped away.

  That's what he liked, that's what he always waited for. Of course itwas dangerous, here in the tunnel system under the garage, but Harryalways got a thrill out of speed. The Pax could do thirty-five or evenforty, probably, on a theoretical open road. Still, twenty-two wasenough to satisfy Harry.

  He whizzed up the ramp, turned, headed for the street-level, thenbraked and waited for the signal to emerge.

  Harsh sunlight pierced the smog and he felt his eyes watering. Now thestreet noises assailed his ears; the grinding of gears, the revving ofmotors. But at least the total volume was lower, and with the windowstightly closed against the acrid air, he could hear.

  Turning to the fat man beside him he said, "Hello, Frazer. What's theurgency?"

  "Got to get downtown before eleven," the fat man answered. "Boardmeeting today, but I forgot about it. Knew I wouldn't have time towait for the car, and I was hoping I'd find someone who'd give me alift. Lucky for me that you came along when you did."

  Harry nodded but did not reply. At the moment he was trying to edgeinto the traffic beyond. It flowed, bumper to bumper, in a steadystream; a stream moving at the uniform and prescribed rate of fifteenmiles per hour. He released his brakes and the Pax nosed forward untila truck sounded its horn in ominous warning. The noise hurt Harry'shead; he winced and grimaced.

  "What's the matter?" asked Frazer.

  "Headache," Harry muttered. He menaced a Chevsoto with his bumper."Damn it, I thought they didn't allow those big four-passenger jobs onthis arterial during rush hours!" Gradually he managed to turn untilhe was in the righthand lane. "There," he said. "We're off."

  And so they were, for all of three minutes, with the speed set atfifteen on autopilot. Then a signal went into action somewhere upahead, and the procession halted. Harry flicked his switch. As wascustomary, horns sounded indignantly on all sides--a mechanicalprotest against a mechanical obstruction. Harry winced again.

  "Hangover?" Frazer asked, solicitously. "Try aspirystamine."

  Harry shook his head. "No hangover. And I've already taken three,thanks. Nothing does any good. So I guess it's just up to you."

  "Up to me?" Frazer was genuinely puzzled. "What can I do about yourheadaches?"

  "You're on the Board of City Planners, aren't you?"

  "That's right."

  "Well, I've got a suggestion for you to give to them. Tell them tostart planning to drop a couple of heavy thermo-nucs on this area.Clean out twenty or thirty million people. We'd never miss 'em."

  Frazer chuckled wryly. "I wish I had a buck for every time I've heard_that_ suggestion."

  "Ever stop to think why you hear it so often? It's because everybodyfeels the same way--we can't take being hemmed in like this."

  "Well, a bomb wouldn't help. You know that." Frazer pursed his lips."Robertson figured out what would happen, with the chain-reaction."

  * * * * *

  Harry glanced sideways at his companion as the car started forwardonce again. "I'v
e always wondered about that," he said. "Seriously, Imean. Is the story really true, or is it just some more of thisgovernment propaganda you fellows like to hand out?"

  Frazer sighed. "It's true, all right. There was a scientist namedRobertson, and he did come up with the thermo-nuc formula, way back in'75. Proved it, too. Use what he developed and the chain-reactionwould never end. Scientists in other countries tested the theory andagreed; there was no collusion, it just worked out that way on apractical basis. Hasn't been a war since--what more proof do youwant?"

  "Well, couldn't they just use some of the old-fashioned hydrogenbombs?"

  "Be sensible, man! Once a war started, no nation could resist thetemptation to go all-out. Fortunately, everyone realizes that. So wehave peace. Permanent peace."

  "I'll take a good war anytime, in preference to this."

  "Harry, you don't know what you're talking about. You aren't so youngthat you can't remember what it was like in the old days. Everybodyliving in fear, waiting for the bombs to fall. People dying of diseaseand worried about dying from radiation and fallout. All theinternational rivalries, the power-politics, the eternal pressures andconstant crises. Nobody in his right mind would want to go back to_that_. We've come a mighty long way in the last twenty years or so."

  Harry switched to autopilot and sat back. "Maybe that's the trouble,"he said. "Maybe we've come too far, too fast. I wasn't kidding aboutdropping those thermo-nucs, either. _Something_ has to be done. Wecan't go on like this indefinitely. Why doesn't the Board come up withan answer?"

  Frazer shrugged his heavy shoulders. "You think we haven't tried,aren't trying now? We're aware of the situation as well as youare--and then some. But there's no easy solution. The population justkeeps growing, that's all. No war to cut it down, contagious diseasesat a minimum, average life-expectancy up to ninety years or better.Naturally, this results in a problem. But a bomb won't help bringabout any permanent solution. Besides, this isn't a local matter, oreven a national one. It's global. What do you think those summitmeetings are all about?"

  "What about birth control?" Harry asked. "Why don't they really getbehind an emigration movement?"

  "We can't limit procreation by law. You know that." Frazer peered outat the swarming streams on the sidewalk levels. "It's more than areligious or a political question--it's a social one. People wantkids. They can afford them. Besides, the Housing Act is set up so thathaving kids is just about the only way you can ever get into largerliving-quarters."

  "Couldn't they try reverse-psychology? I mean, grant priority topeople who are willing to be sterilized?"

  "They tried it, on a limited experimental scale, about three years agoout on the West Coast."

  "I never heard anything about it."

  "Damned right you didn't," Frazer replied, grimly. "They kept thewhole project under wraps, and for a good reason. The publicity mighthave wrecked the Administration."

  "What happened?"

  "What do you suppose happened? There were riots. Do you think a manand his wife and three kids, living in three rooms, liked the idea ofstanding by and watching a sterilized couple enjoy a four-room placewith lawn space? Things got pretty ugly, let me tell you. There was arumor going around that the country was in the hands ofhomosexuals--the churches were up in arms--and if that wasn't badenough, we had to face up to the primary problem. There just wasn't,just isn't, enough _space_. Not in areas suitable for maintaining apopulation. Mountains are still mountains and deserts are stilldeserts. Maybe we can put up housing in such regions, but who can livethere? Even with decentralization going full blast, people must livewithin reasonable access to their work. No, we're just running out ofroom."

  Again the car halted on signal. Over the blasting of the horns, Harryrepeated his query about emigration.

  Frazer shook his head, but made no attempt to reply until the hornshad quieted and they were under way once more.

  "As for emigration, we're just getting some of our own medicine inreturn. About eighty years ago, we clamped down and closed the door onimmigrants; established a quota. Now the same quota is being usedagainst us, and you can't really blame other nations for it. They'refacing worse population increases than we are. Look at the AfricanFederation, and what's happened there, in spite of all thewealth! And South America is even worse, in spite of all thereclamation projects. Fifteen years ago, when they cleared out theAmazon Basin, they thought they'd have enough room for fifty years tocome. And now look at it--two hundred million, that's the latestfigure we've got."

  "So what's the answer?" Harry asked.

  "I don't know. If it wasn't for hydroponics and the Ag Culturecontrols, we'd be licked right now. As it is, we can still supplyenough food, and the old supply-and-demand takes care of the economyas a whole. I have no recommendations for an overall solution, or evena regional one. My job, the Board's job, is regulating housing andtraffic and transportation in Chicagee. That's about all you canexpect us to handle."

  Again they jolted to a stop and the horns howled all around them.Harry sat there until a muscle in the side of his jaw began to twitch.Suddenly he pounded on the horn with both fists.

  "Shut up!" he yelled. "For the love of Heaven, shut up!"

  Abruptly he slumped back. "Sorry," he mumbled. "It's my damnedheadache. I--I've got to get out of this."

  "Job getting you down?"

  "No. It's a good job. At least everybody tells me so. Twenty-fivehours a week, three hundred bucks. The car. The room. The telescreenand liquor and yellowjackets. Plenty of time to kill. Unless it's thetime that's killing me."

  "But--what do you _want_?"

  Harry stepped on the accelerator and they inched along. Now the streetwidened into eight traffic lanes and the big semis joined theprocession on the edge of the downtown area.

  "I want out," Harry said. "Out of this."

  "Don't you ever visit the National Preserves?" Frazer asked.

  "Sure I do. Fly up every vacation. Take a tame plane to a tamegovernment resort and catch my quota of two tame fish. Great sport! IfI got married, I'd be entitled to four tame fish. But that's not whatI want. I want what my father used to talk about. I want to drive intothe country, without a permit, mind you; just to drive wherever Ilike. I want to see cows and chickens and trees and lakes and sky."

  "You sound like a Naturalist."

  "Don't sneer. Maybe the Naturalists are right. Maybe we ought to cutout all this phoney progress and phoney peace that passeth allunderstanding. I'm no liberal, don't get me wrong, but sometimes Ithink the Naturalists have the only answer."

  "But what can you do about it?" Frazer murmured. "Suppose for thesake of argument that they _are_ right. How can you change things? Wecan't just _will_ ourselves to stop growing, and we can't legislateagainst biology. More people, in better health, with more free time,are just bound to have more offspring. It's inevitable, under thecircumstances. And neither you nor I nor anyone has the right tocondemn millions upon millions of others to death through war ordisease."

  "I know," Harry said. "It's hopeless, I guess. All the same, I wantout." He wet his lips. "Frazer, you're on the Board here. You've gotconnections higher up. If I could only get a chance to transfer to AgCulture, go on one of those farms as a worker--"

  Frazer shook his head. "Sorry, Harry. You know the situation there,I'm sure. Right now there's roughly ninety million approvedapplications on file. Everybody wants to get into Ag Culture."

  "But couldn't I just buy some land, get a government contract forfoodstuffs?"

  "Have you got the bucks? A minimum forty acres leased from one of thefarm corporations will cost you two hundred thousand at the veryleast, not counting equipment." He paused. "Besides, there'sVocational Apt. What did your tests show?"

  "You're right," Harry said. "I'm supposed to be an agency man. Anagency man until I die. Or retire on my pension, at fifty, and sit inmy little room for the next fifty years, turning on the telescreenevery morning to hear some loudmouthed liar tell me it's a beautifulday in Ch
icagee. Who knows, maybe by that time we'll have a hundredbillion people enjoying peace and progress and prosperity. All sittingin little rooms and--"

  "Watch out!" Frazer grabbed the wheel. "You nearly hit that truck." Hewaited until Harry's face relaxed before relinquishing his grip."Harry, you'd better go in for a checkup. It isn't just a headachewith you, is it?"

  "You're not fooling," Harry told him. "It isn't just a headache."

  He began to think about what it _really_ was, and that helped alittle. It helped him get through the worst part, which was thedowntown traffic and letting Frazer off and listening to Frazer urgehim to see a doctor.

  Then he got to the building parking area and let them take his caraway and bury it down in the droning darkness where the horns hootedand the headlights glared.

  Harry climbed the ramp and mingled with the ten-thirty shift on itsway up to the elevators. Eighteen elevators in his building, to serveeighty floors. Nine of the elevators were express to the fiftiethfloor, three were express to sixty-five. He wanted one of the latter,and so did the mob. The crushing, clinging mob. They pressed andpanted the way mobs always do; mobs that lynch and torture and dancearound bonfires and guillotines and try to drag you down to trampleyou to death because they can't stand you if your name is Harry andyou want to be different.

  They hate you because you don't like powdered eggs and the telescreenand a beautiful day in Chicagee. And they stare at you because yourforehead hurts and the muscle in your jaw twitches and they know youwant to scream as you go up, up, up, and try to think why you get aheadache from jerking your head to the left.

  Then Harry was at the office door and they said good morning when hecame in, all eighty of the typists in the outer office working theirelectronic machines and offering him their electronic smiles,including the girl he had made electronic love to last Saturday nightand who wanted him to move into a two-room marriage and have children,lots of children who could enjoy peace and progress and prosperity.

  * * * * *

  Harry snapped out of it, going down the corridor. Only a few stepsmore and he'd be safe in his office, his own private office, almost asbig as his apartment. And there would be liquor, and the yellowjacketsin the drawer. That would help. Then he could get to work.

  What was today's assignment? He tried to remember. It wasWilmer-Klibby, wasn't it? Telescreenads for Wilmer-Klibby, makers ofwindow-glass.

  _Window-glass._

  He opened his office door and then slammed it shut behind him. For aminute everything blurred, and then he could remember.

  Now he knew what caused him to jerk his head, what gave him theheadaches when he did so. Of course. That was it.

  When he sat down at the table for breakfast in the morning he turnedhis head to the left because he'd always done so, ever since he was alittle boy. A little boy, in what was then Wheaton, sitting at thebreakfast table and looking out of the window. Looking out at summersunshine, spring rain, autumn haze, the white wonder of newfallensnow.

  He'd never broken himself of the habit. He still looked to the leftevery morning, just as he had today. But there was no window any more.There was only a blank wall. And beyond it, the smog and the clamorand the crowds.

  _Window-glass._ Wilmer-Klibby had problems. Nobody was buyingwindow-glass any more. Nobody except the people who put up buildingslike this. There were still windows on the top floors, just like thewindow here in his office.

  Harry stepped over to it, moving very slowly because of his head. Ithurt to keep his eyes open, but he wanted to stare out of the window.Up this high you could see above the smog. You could see the sun likea radiant jewel packed in the cotton cumulus of clouds. If you openedthe window you could feel fresh air against your forehead, you couldbreathe it in and breathe out the headache.

  But you didn't dare look down. Oh, no, never look _down_, because thenyou'd see the buildings all around you. The buildings below, black andsooty, their jagged outlines like the stumps of rotten teeth. And theystretched off in all directions, as far as the eye could attain; rowafter row of rotten teeth grinning up from the smog-choked throat ofthe streets. From the maw of the city far below came this faint butendless howling, this screaming of traffic and toil. And you couldn'thelp it, you breathed _that_ in too, along with the fresh air, and itpoisoned you and it did more than make your head ache. It made yourheart ache and it made your soul sick, and it made you close your eyesand your lungs and your brain against it.

  Harry reeled, but he knew this was the only way. _Close your brainagainst it._ And then, when you opened your eyes again, maybe youcould see the way things used to be--

  It was snowing out and it was a _wet_ snow, the very best kind forsnowballs and making a snowman, and the whole gang would come outafter school.

  But there was no school, this was Saturday, and the leaves were russetand gold and red so that it looked as if all the trees in the worldwere on fire. And you could scuff when you walked and pile up fallenleaves from the grass and roll in them.

  And it was swell to roll down the front lawn in summer, just rollright down to the edge of the sidewalk like it was a big hill and letDaddy catch you at the bottom, laughing.

  Mamma laughed too, and she said, _Look, it's springtime, the lilacsare out, do you want to touch the pretty lilacs, Harry?_

  And Harry didn't quite understand what she was saying, but he reachedout and they were purple and smelled of rain and soft sweetness andthey were just beyond the window, if he reached a little further hecould touch them--

  And then the snow and the leaves and the grass and the lilacsdisappeared, and Harry could see the rotten teeth again, leering andlooming and snapping at him. They were going to bite, they were goingto chew, they were going to devour, and he couldn't stop them,couldn't stop himself. He was falling into the howling jaws of thecity.

  His last conscious effort was a desperate attempt to gulp fresh airinto his lungs before he pinwheeled down. Fresh air was good forheadaches....