Masser was the theoreticist—I was the applier, the one who translated equations into cold blueprints. And I was good until they ...
They had hounded him back to the land when he quit. Others had not been so lucky. When a whole people panic then an object for their hate must be found. A naming. An immediate object. He remembered the newspaper story that began: "They lynched twelve men, twelve ex-men, in New Mexico last night ..."
Have I been wrong? Have I done the right thing? He remembered the tiny hands in his own, the blind eyes.
Those hands. Why do they make me feel like ...
He let his head slide back against the padded top of the rocking chair and fell into a light, uneasy sleep.
The dreams came as they had before. Tiny, inhumanly capable hands clutched at him and the sun was hot above. There was a background sound of hydrogen bombs, heard mutely. He looked down at the hands that touched and asked something of his own. The eyes were not milky now. They stared up at him, alert and questioning. What is it you want?
The wind tore holes in tiny voices and there was the sound of laughter and his wife's eyes were looking into his own, sorry only for him, at peace with the rest. And they formed a ring around him, those three, hands caught together, enclosing him. What is it you are saying?
It seemed to him that the words would come clear, but the rain came then, great torrents of it, washing all away, all sight and sound....
He awoke and only the rain was true. The tiny rain had increased to a wind-driven downpour and he was soaked where it had blown under the eaves onto the porch.