"I went for a walk," said Jon. "A long walk. On the center levels. It's all wrong up there. It's up, not in. You climb all the way."
"The stars have not moved all day," said George.
Joe turned his head and said, "The stars won't move again. This is as it was spoken. This is the beginning of the End."
"What is the End?" asked Jon.
"I don't know," said Joe and went back to his game.
The End, Jon thought. And none of them know what the End will be, just as they do not know what a ship is, or what money is, or the stars.
"We are meeting," said George. Jon nodded.
He should have known that they would meet. They'd meet for comfort and security. They'd tell the Story once again and they'd pray before the Picture. And I, he thought, and I?
He swung from the room and went out into the corridor, thinking that it might have been best if there'd been no Letter and no Book, for then he'd still be one of them and not a naked stranger standing by himself—not a man torn with wondering which was right, the Story or the Letter.
He found his cubicle and went into it. Mary was there, stretched out on the bed, with the pillows piled beneath her head and the dim bulb burning. "There you are," she said.