"Look, Mac, this stuff is hot, see? Just came off a truck—"
"Wanta look at some nice pictures, Mister?"
"I can give you a good address, Bud."
"Out for a good time, Jack?"
The planet was sick. Had he been sent to cure it?
He came to an area of broad lighted streets. Lights glittered everywhere, attracting the attention of those around him by going on and off. Great posters advertised the attractions inside places of amusement.
He entered one of them, an astonished ticket-collector calling after him, "Hey, where's your ticket, Bud?" But there was something about him that prevented the man from pursuing.
He lost himself in the darkness and watched the screen. Here, in brief and vivid form, was pictured the life of the planet. Women in bathing suits plunged into a pool and formed a pattern which imitated sensuously the petals of an unfolding rose. A small animal leaped through hoops and climbed a ladder. Groups of men drove against each other for possession of an object which they kicked occasionally into the air. An elderly man looked grim and made a speech into a microphone. And then a film showed the main business of the planet, which seemed to be the killing of its supposedly intelligent inhabitants. Bombs exploded, planes crashed, desperate lines of men ran forward to meet their deaths.