the mounds that once had been a city. Things that looked like men.
And after that we found nothing at all. Nothing, that is, except a skeleton that looked like it might once have been a human being.
Here at last we stop. There's no use of going farther, and the gas in the tank of our plane is running low.
The city is a heap of earthy mounds, bearing stunted trees. Queer animals shuffle and slink over and among the mounds. Herb says they are mutations – he read about mutations somewhere in a book.
To the west stretch great veldts of waving grass, and across the river the hills are forested with mighty trees.
But Man is gone. He rose, and for a little while he walked the Earth, But now he's swept away.
Back in 1950, Man thought he was the whole works. But he wasn't so hot, after all. The sunspots took him to the cleaners. Maybe it was the sunspots in the first place that enabled him to rise up on his hind legs and rule the roost. Billy said that sunspots could do some funny things.
But that doesn't matter now. Man is just another has-been.
There's not much left for us to do. Just to sit and think about J.R. rubbing his hands together. And Billy Larson wiggling his ears. And the way Jimmy Langer laughed that night outside the Dutchman's place.
Right now I'd sell my soul to walk into the Dutchman's place and say to Louie: 'It's a hell of a world, Louie.'
And hear Louie answer back: 'It sure as hell is, Mike.'
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