In a
moment, the hard collision, one army on another, the rush, the blood,
the sound, the fury, the death, the insanity! Like cymbals, the armies struck! He leaped up, raving. He ran across the desert. He ran and ran and did
not stop running. He sat down and cried. He sobbed until his lungs ached. He cried
very hard and long. Tears ran down his cheeks and into his upraised,
trembling fingers. "God, God, help me, oh God, help me," he said. All was normal again. *       *       *       *       *

It was four o'clock in the afternoon. The rocks were baked by the sun. He managed, after a time, to cook himself a few hot biscuits, which he
ate with strawberry jam. He wiped his stained fingers on his shirt,
blindly, trying not to think. "At least I know what I'm up against," he thought. "Oh, Lord, what a
world. What an innocent looking world, and what a monster it really is. It's good no one ever explored it before. Or _did_ they?" He shook his
aching head. Pity them, who ever crashed here before, if any ever did. Warm sun, hard rocks, not a sign of hostility. A lovely world. Until you shut your eyes and relaxed your mind. And the night and the voices and the insanity and the death padded in
on soft feet. "I'm all right now, though," he said, proudly. "Look at that." He
displayed his hand. By a supreme effort of will, it was no longer
shaking. "I'll show you who in hell's ruler here," he announced to the
innocent sky. "_I_ am." He tapped his chest. To think that _thought_ could live that long! A million years, perhaps,
all these thoughts of death and disorder and conquest, lingering in the
innocent but poisonous air of the planet, waiting for a real man to
give them a channel through which they might issue again in all their
senseless virulence. Now that he was feeling better, it was all silly. All I have to do,
he thought, is stay awake six nights. They won't bother me that way. When I'm awake, I'm dominant. I'm stronger than those crazy monarchs
and their silly tribes of sword-flingers and shield-bearers and
horn-blowers. I'll stay awake. But _can_ you? he wondered. Six whole nights? Awake? There's coffee and medicine and books and cards. But I'm tired _now_, so tired, he thought. Can I hold out? Well, if not. There's always the gun. Where will these silly monarchs be if you put a bullet through their
stage? All the world's a stage? No. _You_, Leonard Sale, are the small
stage. And they the players. And what if you put a bullet through the
wings, tearing down scenes, destroying curtains, ruining lines! Destroy
the stage, the players, all, if they aren't careful! First of all, he must radio through to Marsport, again. If there was
any way they could rush the rescue ship sooner, then maybe he could
hang on. Anyway, he must warn them what sort of planet this was, this
so innocent seeming spot of nightmare and fever vision--

He tapped on the radio key for a minute. His mouth tightened. The radio
was dead. It had sent through the proper rescue message, received a reply, and
then extinguished itself. The proper touch of irony, he thought. There was only one thing to do. Draw a plan. This he did. He got a yellow pencil and delineated his six day plan of
escape. Tonight, he wrote, read six more chapters of _War and Peace_. At four
in the morning have hot black coffee. At four-fifteen take cards from
pack and play ten games of solitaire. This should take until six-thirty
when--more coffee. At seven o'clock, listen to early morning programs
from Earth, if the receiving equipment on the radio works at all. Does
it? He tried the radio receiver. It was dead. Well, he wrote, from seven o'clock until eight, sing all the songs you
remember, make your own entertainment. From eight until nine think
about Helen King. Remember Helen. On second thought, think about Helen
right now. [Illustration: _Helen King_]

He marked that out with his pencil. The rest of the days were set down in minute detail. He checked the medical kit. There were several packets of tablets that
would keep you awake. One tablet an hour every hour for six days. He
felt quite confident. "Here's mud in your evil eye, Iorr, Tylle!" He swallowed one of the stay-wake tablets with a scalding mouth of
black coffee. *       *       *       *       *

Well, with one thing and another it was Tolstoy or Balzac, gin-rummy,
coffee, tablets, walking, more Tolstoy, more Balzac, more gin-rummy,
more solitaire. The first day passed, as did the second and the third. On the fourth day he lay quietly in the shade of a rock, counting to a
thousand by fives, then by tens, to keep his mind occupied and awake. His eyes were so tired he had to bathe them frequently in cool water. He couldn't read, he was bothered with splitting headaches. He was so
exhausted he couldn't move. He was numb with medicine. He resembled
a waxen dummy, stuffed with things to preserve him in a state of
horrified wakefulness. His eyes were glass, his tongue a rusted pike,
his fingers felt as if they were gloved in needles and fur. He followed the hand of his watch. One second less to wait, he thought. Two seconds, three seconds, four, five, ten, thirty seconds. A whole
minute. Now an hour less time to wait. Oh, ship, hurry on thy appointed
round! He began to laugh softly. What would happen if he just gave up, drifted off into sleep? Sleep,
ah, sleep; perchance to dream. All the world a stage.... What if he
gave up the unequal struggle, lapsed down? _Eeeeeeeeeee_, the high, shrill warning sound of battle metal. He shivered. His tongue moved in his dry, burry mouth. Iorr and Tylle would battle out their ancient battle. Leonard Sale would become quite insane. And whichever won the battle, would take this ruin of an insane man,
the shaking, laughing wild body, and wander it across the face of this
world for ten, twenty years, occupying it, striding in it, pompous,
holding court, making grand gestures, ordering heads severed, calling
on inward unseen dancing girls. Leonard Sale, what remained of him,
would be led off to some hidden cave, there to be infested with wars
and worms of wars for twenty insane years, occupied and prostituted by
old and outlandish thoughts. When the rescue ship arrived it would find nothing. Sale would be
hidden somewhere by a triumphant army in his head. Hidden in some
cleft of rock, placed there like a nest for Iorr to lie upon in evil
occupation. The thought of it almost broke him in half. Twenty years of insanity. Twenty years of torture, doing what you don't
want to do. Twenty years of wars raging and being split apart, twenty
years of nausea and trembling. His head sank down between his knees. His eyes snapped and cracked and
made soft noises. His eardrum popped tiredly. _Sleep, sleep_, sang soft sea voices. I'll--I'll make a proposition with you, listen, thought Leonard Sale. You, Iorr, you, too, Tylle! Iorr, you can occupy me on Mondays,
Wednesdays and Fridays. Tylle, you can take me over on Sundays,
Tuesdays and Saturdays.