My God, I can kill hundreds of thousands of
them before they even realize murder is out in the world again. I can
make it look like an accident each time. Why, the idea is so huge, it's
unbelievable!" The fire burned the town. He sat under a tree for a long time, until
morning. Then, he found a cave in the hills, and went in, to sleep. *       *       *       *       *

He awoke at sunset with a sudden dream of fire. He saw himself pushed
into the flue, cut into sections by flame, burned away to nothing. He
sat up on the cave floor, laughing at himself. He had an idea. He walked down into the town and stepped into an audio booth. He dialed
OPERATOR. "Give me the Police Department," he said. "I beg your pardon?" said the operator. He tried again. "The Law Force," he said. "I will connect you with the Peace Control," she said, at last. A little fear began ticking inside him like a tiny watch. Suppose the
operator recognized the term Police Department as an anachronism, took
his audio number, and sent someone out to investigate? No, she wouldn't
do that. Why should she suspect? Paranoids were non-existent in this
civilization. "Yes, the Peace Control," he said. A buzz. A man's voice answered. "Peace Control. Stephens speaking." "Give me the Homicide Detail," said Lantry, smiling. "The _what_?" "Who investigates murders?" "I beg your pardon, what are you talking about?" "Wrong number." Lantry hung up, chuckling. Ye gods, there was no such
a thing as a Homicide Detail. There were no murders, therefore they
needed no detectives. Perfect, perfect! The audio rang back. Lantry hesitated, then answered. "Say," said the voice on the phone. "Who _are_ you?" "The man just left who called," said Lantry, and hung up again. He ran. They would recognize his voice and perhaps send someone out
to check. People didn't lie. _He_ had just lied. They knew his voice. He had lied. Anybody who lied needed a psychiatrist. They would come
to pick him up to see why he was lying. For no _other_ reason. They
suspected him of nothing else. Therefore--he must run. Oh, how very carefully he must act from now on. He knew nothing of this
world, this odd straight truthful ethical world. Simply by looking
pale you were suspect. Simply by not sleeping nights you were suspect. Simply by not bathing, by smelling like a--dead cow?--you were suspect. Anything. He must go to a library. But that was dangerous, too. What were
libraries like today? Did they have books or did they have film spools
which projected books on a screen? Or did people have libraries at
home, thus eliminating the necessity of keeping large main libraries? He decided to chance it. His use of archaic terms might well make him
suspect again, but now it was very important he learn all that could be
learned of this foul world into which he had come again. He stopped a
man on the street. "Which way to the library?" The man was not surprised. "Two blocks east, one block north." "Thank you." Simple as that. He walked into the library a few minutes later. "May I help you?" He looked at the librarian. May I help you, may I help you. What a
world of helpful people! "I'd like to 'have' Edgar Allan Poe." His
verb was carefully chosen. He didn't say 'read'. He was too afraid
that books were passé, that printing itself was a lost art. Maybe all
'books' today were in the form of fully delineated three-dimensional
motion pictures. How in hell could you make a motion picture out of
Socrates, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche and Freud? "What was that name again?" "Edgar Allan Poe." "There is no such author listed in our files." "Will you please check?" She checked. "Oh, yes. There's a red mark on the file card. He was one
of the authors in the Great Burning of 2265." "How ignorant of me." "That's all right," she said. "Have you heard much of him?" "He had some interesting barbarian ideas on death," said Lantry. "Horrible ones," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Ghastly." "Yes. Ghastly. Abominable, in fact. Good thing he was burned. Unclean. By the way, do you have any of Lovecraft?" "Is that a sex book?" Lantry exploded with laughter. "No, no. It's a man." She riffled the file. "He was burned, too. Along with Poe." "I suppose that applies to Machen and a man named Derleth and one named
Ambrose Bierce, also?" "Yes." She shut the file cabinet. "All burned. And good riddance." She
gave him an odd warm look of interest. "I bet you've just come back
from Mars." "Why do you say that?" "There was another explorer in here yesterday. He'd just made the Mars
hop and return. He was interested in supernatural literature, also. It
seems there are actually 'tombs' on Mars." "What are 'tombs'?" Lantry was learning to keep his mouth closed. "You know, those things they once buried people in." "Barbarian custom. Ghastly!" "_Isn't_ it? Well, seeing the Martian tombs made this young explorer
curious. He came and asked if we had any of those authors you
mentioned. Of course we haven't even a smitch of their stuff." She
looked at his pale face. "You _are_ one of the Martian rocket men,
aren't you?" "Yes," he said. "Got back on the ship the other day." "The other young man's name was Burke." "Of course. Burke! Good friend of mine!" "Sorry I can't help you. You'd best get yourself some vitamin shots and
some sun-lamp. You look terrible, Mr. ----?" "Lantry. I'll be good. Thanks ever so much. See you next Hallows' Eve!" "Aren't you the clever one." She laughed. "If there _were_ a Hallows'
Eve, I'd make it a date." "But they burned _that_, too," he said. "Oh, they burned everything," she said. "Good night." "Good night." And he went on out. *       *       *       *       *

Oh, how carefully he was balanced in this world! Like some kind of
dark gyroscope, whirling with never a murmur, a very silent man. As
he walked along the eight o'clock evening street he noticed with
particular interest that there was not an unusual amount of lights
about. There were the usual street lights at each corner, but the
blocks themselves were only faintly illuminated. Could it be that these
remarkable people were not _afraid of the dark_? Incredible nonsense! _Every one_ was afraid of the dark. _Even he_ himself had been afraid,
as a child. It was as natural as eating. A little boy ran by on pelting feet, followed by six others. They
yelled and shouted and rolled on the dark cool October lawn, in the
leaves. Lantry looked on for several minutes before addressing himself
to one of the small boys who was for a moment taking a respite,
gathering his breath into his small lungs, as a boy might blow to
refill a punctured paper bag. "Here, now," said Lantry. "You'll wear yourself out." "Sure," said the boy. "Could you tell me," said the man, "why there are no street lights in
the middle of the blocks?" "Why?" asked the boy. "I'm a teacher, I thought I'd test your knowledge," said Lantry. "Well," said the boy, "you don't need lights in the middle of the
block, that's why." "But it gets rather dark," said Lantry. "So?"