"An intuition," chanted Alpha, "a picture out of the other time. It is hard, merciless, inflexible."
Beta poised on the pyramid, dove through the glassy surface, swam under Alpha, emerged, lay flat beside him.
"Observe the Relict on the hillside. In his blood is the whole of the old race—the narrow men with minds like cracks. He has exuded the intuition. Clumsy thing—a blunderer," said Alpha.
"They are all dead, all of them," said Beta. "Although three or four remain." (When past, present and future are no more than ideas left over from another era, like boats on a dry lake—then the completion of a process can never be defined.)
Alpha said, "This is the vision. I see the Relicts swarming the Earth; then whisking off to nowhere, like gnats in the wind. This is behind us."
The Organisms lay quiet, considering the vision.
A rock, or perhaps a meteor, fell from the sky, struck into the surface of the pond. It left a circular hole which slowly closed. From another part of the pool a gout of fluid splashed into the air, floated away.
Alpha spoke: "Again—the intuition comes strong! There will be lights in the sky."
The fever died in him. He hooked a finger into the air, hoisted himself to his feet.
Beta lay quiet. Slugs, ants, flies, beetles were crawling on him, boring, breeding. Alpha knew that Beta could arise, shake off the insects, stride off. But Beta seemed to prefer passivity. That was well enough. He could produce another Beta should he choose, or a dozen of him. Sometimes the world swarmed with Organisms, all sorts, all colors, tall as steeples, short and squat as flower-pots.