Shakily, Martin rose. His mind was clear now, the fogginess washed away by the cool morning air. There was only hunger, that great gnawing hunger, and thirst that made his throat and mouth seem as dry as ancient parchment.
As he stood overlooking the valley below with its green fields and little groves of trees, a realization came to him. The world wasn't so bad after all! Up to this moment, he'd almost hated the world with its wars, its threats of mass destruction, its warnings of atomic dusts and plagues that could wipe out humanity within an hour. He'd most certainly hated the cities with their blaring, rumbling automobile-monsters, with their mad rushing, their greedy, frantic, senseless, superficial living that was really not living at all.
That was why he had chosen to live in the hill country, on the outskirts of the village, raising his few vegetables and making a trip every few days to the village store to purchase other necessities with his pension check from World War II.
But now, he realized, it was good to be alive and to be a part of the green, growing things of Earth.
Sandy barked again.
"Okay, okay, Sandy. We'll go."
But Sandy came sidling up to him now, tail between his legs. His barking faded to a low, shrill whimper.
"Sandy! What's the matter? What's wrong?"
Even the whimpering ceased, and there was silence. Martin stared at the dog, not understanding. To him came a feeling. Something was wrong. A nameless fear rose within him, but the cause of that fear was intangible, locked just below the surface of consciousness.
He took the fear, crushed it, pushed it back into the caverns of his mind that held only forgotten things. "Nothing's wrong," he declared boldly. "We're just tired and hungry, that's all."