“Will we always have to sacrifice to it?” Bill Gustavson asked. “Will this go on forever, year after year?”

“Some day, we’ll find a question it can’t answer,” Kent said. “Then it’ll let us alone. If we can stump it, then we won’t have to feed it any more. If only we can find the right question!”

Anne Fry came toward him, her face white. “Walter?” she said.

“Yes?”

“Has it always been—been kept alive this way? Has it always depended on one of us to keep it going? I can’t believe human beings were supposed to be used to keep a machine alive.”

Kent shook his head. “Before the Smash it must have used some kind of artificial fuel. Then something happened. Maybe its fuel ducts were damaged or broken, and it changed its ways. I suppose it had to. It was like us, in that respect. We all changed our ways. There was a time when human beings didn’t hunt and trap animals. And there was a time when the Great C didn’t trap human beings.”

“Why—why did it make the Smash, Walter?”

“To show it was stronger than we.”

“Was it always so strong? Stronger than man?”

“No. They say that, once, there was no Great C. That man himself brought it to life, to tell him things. But gradually it grew stronger, until at last it brought down the atoms—and with the atoms, the Smash. Now it lives off us. Its power has made us slaves. It became too strong.”

“But some day, the time will come when it won’t know the answer,” Page said.

“Then it will have to release us,” Kent said, “according to tradition. It will have to stop using us for food.”

Page clenched his fists, staring back across the forest. “Some day that time will come. Some day we’ll find a question too hard for it!”

“Let’s get started,” Gustavson said grimly. “The sooner we begin preparing for next year, the better!”

Out in the Garden

“That’s where she is,” Robert Nye said. “As a matter of fact, she’s always out there. Even when the weather’s bad. Even in the rain.”

“I see,” his friend Lindquist said, nodding. The two of them pushed open the back door and stepped out onto the porch. The air was warm and fresh. They both stopped, taking a deep breath. Lindquist looked around. “Very nice-looking garden. It’s really a garden, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “I can understand her, now. Look at it!”

“Come along,” Nye said, going down the steps onto the path. “She’s probably sitting on the other side of the tree. There’s an old seat in the form of a circle, like you used to see in the old days. She’s probably sitting with Sir Francis.”

“Sir Francis? Who’s that?” Lindquist came along, hurrying behind him.

“Sir Francis is her pet duck. A big white duck.” They turned down the path, past the lilac bushes, crowded over their great wooden frames. Rows of tulips in full bloom stretched out on both sides. A rose trellis stretched up the side of a small greenhouse. Lindquist stared in pleasure. Rose bushes, lilacs, endless shrubs and flowers. A wall of wisteria. A massive willow tree.

And sitting at the foot of the tree, gazing down at a white duck in the grass beside her, was Peggy.

Lindquist stood rooted to the spot, fascinated by Mrs. Nye’s beauty. Peggy Nye was small, with soft dark hair and great warm eyes, eyes filled with a gentle, tolerant sadness. She was buttoned up in a little blue coat and suit, with sandals on her feet and flowers in her hair. Roses.

“Sweetheart,” Nye said to her, “look who’s here. You remember Tom Lindquist, don’t you?”

Peggy looked up quickly. “Tommy Lindquist!” she exclaimed. “How are you? How nice it is to see you.”

“Thanks.” Lindquist shuffled a little in pleasure. “How have you been, Peg? I see you have a friend.”

“A friend?”

“Sir Francis. That’s his name, isn’t it?”

Peggy laughed. “Oh, Sir Francis.” She reached down and smoothed the duck’s feathers. Sir Francis went on searching out spiders from the grass. “Yes, he’s a very good friend of mine. But won’t you sit down? How long are you staying?”

“He won’t be here very long,” her husband said. “He’s driving through to New York on some kind of business.”

“That’s right,” Lindquist said. “Say, you certainly have a wonderful garden here, Peggy. I remember you always wanted a nice garden, with lots of birds and flowers.”

“It is lovely,” Peggy said. “We’re out here all the time.”

“We?”

“Sir Francis and myself.”

“They spend a lot of time together,” Robert Nye said. “Cigarette?” He held out his pack to Lindquist. “No?” Nye lit one for himself. “Personally, I can’t see anything in ducks, but I never was much on flowers and nature.”

“Robert stays indoors and works on his articles,” Peggy said. “Sit down, Tommy.” She picked up the duck and put him on her lap. “Sit here, beside us.”

“Oh, no,” Lindquist said. “This is fine.”

He became silent, looking down at Peggy and all the flowers, the grass, the silent duck. A faint breeze moved through the rows of iris behind the tree, purple and white iris. No one spoke. The garden was very cool and quiet. Lindquist sighed.

“What is it?” Peggy said.

“You know, all this reminds me of a poem.” Lindquist rubbed his forehead. “Something by Yeats, I think.”

“Yes, the garden is like that,” Peggy said. “Very much like poetry.”

Lindquist concentrated. “I know!” he said, laughing. “It’s you and Sir Francis, of course. You and Sir Francis sitting there. ‘Leda and the Swan’.”

Peggy frowned. “Do I—”

“The swan was Zeus,” Lindquist said. “Zeus took the shape of a swan to get near Leda while she was bathing. He—uh—made love to her in the shape of a swan. Helen of Troy was born—because of that, you see. The daughter of Zeus and Leda. How does it go … ‘A sudden blow: the great wings beating still above the staggering girl’—”

He stopped. Peggy was staring up at him, her face blazing. Suddenly she leaped up, pushing the duck from her path. She was trembling with anger.

“What is it?” Robert said. “What’s wrong?”

“How dare you!” Peggy said to Lindquist. She turned and walked off quickly.

Robert ran after her, catching hold of her arm. “But what’s the matter? What’s wrong? That’s just poetry!”

She pulled away. “Let me go.”

He had never seen her so angry. Her face had become like ivory, her eyes like two stones. “But Peg—”

She looked up at him. “Robert,” she said, “I am going to have a baby.”

“What!”

She nodded. “I was going to tell you tonight. He knows.” Her lips curled. “He knows. That’s why he said it. Robert, make him leave! Please make him go!”

Nye nodded mechanically. “Sure, Peg. Sure. But—it’s true? Really true? You’re really going to have a baby?” He put his arms around her. “But that’s wonderful! Sweetheart, that’s marvelous. I never heard anything so marvelous. My golly! For heaven’s sake. It’s the most marvelous thing I ever heard.”

He led her back toward the seat, his arm around her. Suddenly his foot struck something soft, something that leaped and hissed in rage. Sir Francis waddled away, half-flying, his beak snapping in fury.

“Tom!” Robert shouted. “Listen to this. Listen to something. Can I tell him, Peg? Is it all right?”

Sir Francis hissed furiously after him, but in the excitement no one noticed him, not at all.

It was a boy, and they named him Stephen. Robert Nye drove slowly home from the hospital, deep in thought. Now that he actually had a son his thoughts returned to that day in the garden, that afternoon Tom Lindquist had stopped by. Stopped by and quoted the line of Yeats that had made Peg so angry. There had been an air of cold hostility between himself and Sir Francis, after that. He had never been able to look at Sir Francis quite the same again.

Robert parked the car in front of the house and walked up the stone steps. Actually, he and Sir Francis had never gotten along, not since the first day they had brought him back from the country. It was Peg’s idea from the beginning. She had seen the sign by the farmhouse—