. . .Earth with the feverish news of intelligent life. Ingomar Bjorgson had come to investigate.

Birds, yet.

They were only two. Two birds with minds like the edge of a razor, living alone on this planet that was one hundred per cent desert.

He took one last look around the bubble, then walked out, leaving the door open. From ten feet away he watched the sand already blowing in through the doorway, and he felt very lonely and small. He knew that his death, like his life, would never be marked anywhere with any degree of permanence.

He walked. There was no hurry, so he walked slowly, stopping occasionally to turn and stare at the tracks his feet had scuffed in the sand, watching sand drift into them. He smiled wryly. The universe was so eager to be rid of him—as if he were a disease.

He looked up again, studying the whole sky. But there was no movement of wings, no silver streak of a ship coming to pick him up. Only one s. . . Read More