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It was but ten miles to the little town of Science Port. He made it by dawn, walking. But even this was not good. At four in the morning a silver beetle pulled up on the road beside him.
“Hello,” called the man inside.
“Hello,” said Lantry, wearily.
“Why are you walking?” asked the man.
“I’m going to Science Port.”
“Why don’t you ride?”
“I like to walk.”
“Nobody likes to walk. Are you sick? May I give you a ride?”
“Thanks, but I like to walk.”
The man hesitated, then closed the beetle door. “Good night.”
When the beetle was gone over the hill, Lantry retreated into a nearby forest. A world full of bungling, helping people. By God, you couldn’t even walk without being accused of sickness. That meant only one thing. He must not walk any longer, he had to ride. He should have accepted that fellow’s offer.
The rest of the night he walked far enough off the highway so that if a beetle rushed by he had time to vanish in the underbrush. At dawn he crept into an empty dry water drain and closed his eyes.
The dream was as perfect as a rimed snowflake.
He saw the graveyard where he had lain deep and ripe over the centuries. He heard the early morning footsteps of the laborers returning to finish their work.
“Would you mind passing me the shovel, Jim?”
“Here you go.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!”
“What’s up?”
“Look here. We didn’t finish last night, did we?”
“No.”
There was one more coffin, wasn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, here it is, and open!”
“You’ve got the wrong hole.”
“What’s the name say on the gravestone?”
“Lantry. William Lantry.”
“That’s him, that’s the one! Gone!”
“What could have happened to it?”
“How do I know. The body was here last night.”
“We can’t be sure, we didn’t look.”
