Then he
would sit down and open a can of oily sardines and some canned fresh
bread with good butter on it. From twelve thirty until four he would
read nine chapters of _War and Peace_. He took the book from the
wreckage, and laid it where he might find it later. There was a book of
T. S. Eliot's poetry, too. That might be nice. Supper would come at five-thirty and then from six until ten he
would listen to the radio from Earth. There would be a couple of bad
comedians telling jokes and a bad singer singing some song, and the
latest news flashes, signing off at midnight with the UN anthem. After that? He felt sick. I'll play solitaire until dawn, he thought. I'll sit up and drink hot
black coffee and play solitaire, no cheating, until sunrise. Ho ho, he thought. "What did you say?" he asked himself. "I said 'Ha ha'," he replied. "_Some_ time, you'll have to sleep." "I'm wide awake," he said. "Liar," he retorted, enjoying the conversation. "I feel fine," he said. "Hypocrite," he replied. "I'm not afraid of the night, or sleep, or anything," he said. "_Very_ funny," he said. He felt bad. He wanted to sleep. And the fact that he was afraid of
sleep made him want to lie down all the more and shut his eyes and curl
up. "Comfy-cozy?" asked his ironic censor. "I'll just walk and look at the rocks and the geological formations and
think how good it is to be alive," he said. "Ye gods," cried his censor. "William Saroyan!" You'll go on, he thought, maybe one day, maybe one night, but what
about the next night and the next, and the _next_? Can you stay awake
_all_ that time, for six nights? Until the rescue ship comes? Are you
_that_ good, _that_ strong? The answer was no. What are you afraid of? I don't know. Those voices. Those sounds. But
they can't hurt you, can they? They _might_. You've got to face them some time. Must I? Brace up to
it, old man. Chin up, and all that rot. He sat down on the hard ground. He felt very much like crying. He felt
as if life was over and he was entering new and unknown territory. It
was such a deceiving day, with the sun warm; physically, he felt able
and well, one might fish on such a day as this, or pick flowers or kiss
a woman or anything. But in the midst of a lovely day, what did one get? Death. Well, hardly _that_. Death, he insisted. He lay down and closed his eyes. He was tired of messing around. All right, he thought, if you _are_ death, come get me. I want to know
what all this damned nonsense is about. Death came. *       *       *       *       *

_Eeeeeeeeeeeeee_, said a voice. Yes, I know, said Leonard Sale, lying there. But what else? _Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, said a voice. I know that, also, said Leonard Sale, irritably. He turned cold. His
mouth hung open wildly. "I am Tylle of Rathalar, Killer of Men!" "I am Iorr of Wendillo, Destroyer of Infidels!" What is this place? asked Leonard Sale, struggling against horror. "Once a mighty planet!" said Tylle of Rathalar. "Once a place of battles!" said Iorr of Wendillo. "Now dead," said Tylle. "Now silent," said Iorr. "Until _you_ came," said Tylle. "To give us life again," said Iorr. You're dead, insisted Leonard Sale, flesh writhing. You're nothing but
empty wind. "We live, through you." "And fight, through _you_!" So that's it, thought Leonard Sale. I'm to be a battleground, am I? Are
you friends? "Enemies!" cried Iorr. "Foul enemies!" cried Tylle. *       *       *       *       *

Leonard smiled a rictal smile. He felt ghastly. How long have you
waited? he demanded. "How long is _time_?" Ten thousand years? "Perhaps." Ten million years? "Perhaps." What are you? Thoughts, spirits, ghosts? "All of those, and more." Intelligences? "Precisely." How did you survive? _Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee_, sang the chorus, far away. _Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, sang another army, waiting to fight. "Once upon a time, this was fertile land, a rich planet. And there were
two nations, strong nations, led by two strong men. I, Iorr. And he,
that one who calls himself Tylle. And the planet declined and gave way
to nothingness. The peoples and the armies languished in the midst of
a great war which had lasted five thousand years. We lived long lives
and loved long loves, drank much, slept much, fought much. And when
the planet died, our bodies withered, and, only in time, and with much
science, did we survive." Survive, wondered Leonard Sale. But there is nothing of you! "Our _minds_, fool, our _minds_! What is a body without a mind?" What is a mind without a _body_, laughed Leonard Sale. I've got you
there. Admit it, I've _got_ you! "True," said the cruel voice. "One is useless lacking the other. But
survival is survival even when unconscious. The minds of our nations,
through science, through wonder, survived." But without senses, lacking eyes, ears, lacking touch, smell, and the
rest? "Lacking all those, yes. We were vapors, merely. For a long time. Until today." And now I am here, thought Leonard Sale. "You are here," said the
voice. "To give substance to our mentalities. To give us our needed
body." I'm only one, thought Sale. "Nevertheless, you are of use." I'm an individual, thought Sale. I resent your intrusion. "He resents our intrusion! Did you hear him, Iorr? He resents!" "As if he had a right to resent!" Be careful, warned Sale. I'll blink my eyes and you'll be gone,
phantoms! I'll wake up and rub you out! "But you'll have to sleep again, _some_ time!" cried Iorr. "And when
you do, we'll be here, waiting, waiting, waiting. For you." What do you want? "Solidity. Mass. Sensation again." You can't _both_
have it. "We'll fight that out between us." A hot clamp twisted his skull. It was as if a spike had been thrust and
beaten down between the bivalvular halves of his brain. Now it was terribly clear. Horribly, magnificently clear. He was their
universe. The world of his thoughts, his brain, his skull, divided into
two camps, that of Iorr, that of Tylle. They were _using_ him! Pennants flung up on a pink mind sky! Brass shields caught the sun. Grey animals shifted and came rushing in bristling tides of sword and
plume and trumpet. _Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_ The rushing. _Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!_ The roaring. _Nowwwwwwwwww!_ the whirling. _Mmmmmmmmmmmmm_----

Ten thousand men hurtled across the small hidden stage. Ten thousand
men floated on the shellacked inner ball of his eye. Ten thousand
javelins hissed between the small bone hulls of his head. Ten thousand
jeweled guns exploded. Ten thousand voices chanted in his ears. Now
his body was riven and extended, shaken and rolled, he was screaming,
writhing, the plates of his skull threatened to burst asunder. The
gabbling, the shrilling, as, across bone plains of mind and continent
of inner marrow, through gullies of vein, down hills of artery, over
rivers of melancholy, came armies and armies, one army, two armies,
swords flashed in the sun, bearing down upon each other, fifty thousand
minds snatching, scrabbling, cutting at him, demanding, using.