Wait now. There was something wrong, something missing. It was—oh, yes, he caught it. It was the stone. There wasn't any stone to go at the head of the grave. "I'll have to fix that."
A sheet of metal, bent double, served for the monument proper. A nearby tool shed yielded up a can of paint and a brush. By the glow of one of the streetlights Charles worked out the inscription.
"It ought to be something impressive," he thought out loud. "Something fitting the occasion."
What did one say on these situations? There was so little chance to practice up for things like this. But it ought to be good, it ought to be proper.
"'In this now hallowed corner of the planet Earth—' No. That sounds too ... too...."
Make it simple, he thought. And he finally wrote:
HERE LIES THE BODY OF
THE LAST MAN ON EARTH
Yes. That was it. Simple. Let whoever came afterwards figure out the rest. Let them decide. He smiled and finished the painting.
Charles was hungry. He got up and started for one of the restaurants near the park. Later on, when there was more time, he'd find a piece of granite and move it to the plot. He could spend his free time carving on it, copying the inscription. He would make it into a real shrine; maybe he would practice up a bit and try to carve a statue to go with the stone.
Somehow, though, since things were ready and it didn't make too much difference, it seemed to Charles that he'd probably have a long time to wait. "Maybe it's just a disease, and I'm immune. I was immune to smallpox. The vaccination never took. That's probably it."