by Damon Knight
Watching from the hilltop, with his arm around his wife’s waist, Alvah saw them being herded into groups and led away, unprotesting—saw them in the wains, rolling off toward the temporary shelters where, likely as not, they would sleep the night through, too numbed to be afraid of the morrow.
In the morning, their teaching would begin.
Babylon, Alvah thought, Thebes, Angkor, Lagash, Agade, Tyre, Luxor, and now New York.
A City grew out and then in—it was always the way, whether or not it had a Barrier around it. Growing, it crippled itself and its people—and died. The weeds overleaped its felled stones.
“Like an egg,” B.J. said, although he had not spoken. “Omne ex ovo—but the eggshell has to break.”
“I know,” said Alvah, discovering that the empty ache in his belly was not sentiment but hunger. “Speaking of eggs-”
B.J. gave his arm a reassuring little pat. “Anything you want, dear. Radnip, orangoe, pearots, fleetmeat—you pick the menu.”
Alvah’s mouth began to water.