“What caused all this?” inquired Pander, waving a limb at the world.
“War,” said Graypate. “The last war we’ll ever have. The entire place went nuts.”
“How did that come about?”
“You’ve got me there.” Graypate gave the problem grave consideration. “I reckon it wasn’t just any one thing; it was a multitude of things sort of piling themselves up.”
“Such as?”
“Differences in people. Some were colored differently in their bodies, others in their ideas, and they couldn’t get along. Some bred faster than others, wanted more room, more food. There wasn’t any more room or more food. The world was full, and nobody could shove in except by pushing another out. My old man told me plenty before he died, and he always maintained that if folk had had the boss-sense to keep their numbers down, there might not—”
“Your old man?” interjected Pander. “Your father? Didn’t all this occur in your own lifetime?”
“It did not. I saw none of it. I am the son of the son of a survivor.”
“Let’s go back to the cave,” put in Speedy, bored with the silent contact-talk. “I want to show him our harp.”
They took no notice, and Pander went on, “Do you think there might be a lot of others still living?”