William Lantry walked across the wide wet street and entered the
warehouse. He held a piece of blue chalk in one hand. He walked by the coroner who stood in the entranceway talking to two
others. "... drive the bodies to the Incinerator in Mellin Town,
tomorrow...." The voices faded. Lantry moved, his feet echoing faintly on the cool concrete. A wave of
sourceless relief came to him as he walked among the shrouded figures. He was among his own. And--better than that, by God! he had _created_
these! He had made them dead! He had procured for himself a vast number
of recumbent friends! Was the coroner watching? Lantry turned his head. No. The warehouse
was calm and quiet and shadowed in the dark morning. The coroner was
walking away now, across the street, with his two attendants; a beetle
had drawn up on the other side of the street, and the coroner was going
over to talk with whoever was in the beetle. William Lantry stood and made a blue chalk pentagram on the floor by
each of the bodies. He moved swiftly, swiftly, without a sound, without
blinking. In a few minutes, glancing up now and then to see if the
coroner was still busy, he had chalked the floor by a hundred bodies. He straightened up and put the chalk in his pocket. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party, now
is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party, now is
the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party, now is the
time.... Lying in the earth, over the centuries, the processes and thoughts
of passing peoples and passing times had seeped down to him, slowly,
as into a deep-buried sponge. From some death-memory in him now,
ironically, repeatedly, a black typewriter clacked out black even lines
of pertinent words:

Now is the time for all good men, for all good men, to come to the aid
of--

William Lantry. _Other words_--

Arise my love, and come away--

The quick brown fox jumped over.... _Paraphrase it._ The quick risen
body jumped over the tumbled Incinerator....

Lazarus, come forth from the tomb.... He knew the right words. He need only speak them as they had been
spoken over the centuries. He need only gesture with his hands and
speak the words, the dark words that would cause these bodies to
quiver, rise and walk! And when they had risen he would take them through the town, they would
kill others and the others would rise and walk. By the end of the day
there would be thousands of good friends walking with him. And what of
the naive, living people of this year, this day, this hour? They would
be completely unprepared for it. They would go down to defeat because
they would not be expecting war of any sort. They wouldn't believe it
possible, it would all be over before they could convince themselves
that such an illogical thing could happen. He lifted his hands. His lips moved. He said the words. He began in a
chanting whisper and then raised his voice, louder. He said the words
again and again. His eyes were closed tightly. His body swayed. He
spoke faster and faster. He began to move forward among the bodies. The dark words flowed from his mouth. He was enchanted with his own
formulae. He stooped and made further blue symbols on the concrete, in
the fashion of long-dead sorcerers, smiling, confident. Any moment now
the first tremor of the still bodies, any moment now the rising, the
leaping up of the cold ones! His hands lifted in the air. His head nodded. He spoke, he spoke, he
spoke. He gestured. He talked loudly over the bodies, his eyes flaring,
his body tensed. "Now!" he cried, violently. "Rise, _all_ of you!" Nothing happened. "Rise!" he screamed, with a terrible torment in his voice. The sheets lay in white blue-shadow folds over the silent bodies. "Hear me, and act!" he shouted. Far away, on the street, a beetle hissed along. Again, again, again he shouted, pleaded. He got down by each body and
asked of it his particular violent favor. No reply. He strode wildly
between the even white rows, flinging his arms up, stooping again and
again to make blue symbols! Lantry was very pale. He licked his lips. "Come on, get up," he said. "They have, they always have, for a thousand years. When you make a
mark--so! and speak a word--so! they always rise! Why not you now, why
not you! Come on, come _on_, before _they_ come back!" The warehouse went up into shadow. There were steel beams across and
down. In it, under the roof, there was not a sound, except the raving
of a lonely man. Lantry stopped. Through the wide doors of the warehouse he caught a glimpse of the last
cold stars of morning. This was the year 2349. His eyes grew cold and his hands fell to his sides. He did not move. *       *       *       *       *

Once upon a time people shuddered when they heard the wind about the
house, once people raised crucifixes and wolfbane, and believed in
walking dead and bats and loping white wolves. And as long as they
believed, then so long did the dead, the bats, the loping wolves exist. The mind gave birth and reality to them. But.... He looked at the white sheeted bodies. _These_ people did not believe. They had never believed. They would never believe. They had never
imagined that the dead might walk. The dead went up flues in flame. They had never heard superstition, never trembled or shuddered or
doubted in the dark. Walking dead people could not exist, they were
illogical. This was the year 2349, man, after all! Therefore, these people could not rise, could not walk again. They were
dead and flat and cold. Nothing, chalk, imprecation, superstition,
could wind them up and set them walking. They were dead and _knew_ they
were dead! He was alone. There were live people in the world who moved and drove beetles and
drank quiet drinks in little dimly illumined bars by country roads, and
kissed women and talked much good talk all day and every day. But he was not alive. Friction gave him what little warmth he possessed. There were two hundred dead people here in this warehouse now,
cold upon the floor. The first dead people in a hundred years who
were allowed to be corpses for an extra hour or more. The first not
to be immediately trundled to the Incinerator and lit like so much
phosphorous. He should be happy with them, among them. He was not. They were completely dead. They did not know nor believe in walking
once the heart had paused and stilled itself. They were deader than
dead ever was. He was indeed alone, more alone than any man had ever been. He felt the
chill of his aloneness moving up into his chest, strangling him quietly. William Lantry turned suddenly and gasped. While he had stood there, someone had entered the warehouse. A tall man
with white hair, wearing a light-weight tan overcoat and no hat. How
long the man had been nearby there was no telling. There was no reason to stay here. Lantry turned and started to walk
slowly out. He looked hastily at the man as he passed and the man
with the white hair looked back at him, curiously.