His wife, Elizabeth Bartlett, a widely published and internationally recognized poet, is the author of seventeen published books of poetry, more than one thousand individually published poems, numerous short stories and essays in leading literary quarterlies and anthologies, and, as the founder of Literary Olympics, Inc., served as the editor of a series of multi-language volumes of international poetry to honor the work of outstanding contemporary poets. The author of this Introduction (Paul and Elizabeth Bartlett’s only child)] apparently inherited their writer’s gene and has published books and articles in the fields of philosophy and psychology. * * * * * * * * *Forward, Children!* *PORTRAIT* Orville Dennison was five feet eleven inches tall and weighed a hundred and fifty pounds. He had the body of an athlete, the body of a crewman and a tennis player. His eyes were brown with flecks of grey in them. He had brown hair and combed it straight back and when it was long it bulged out on the sides and had waves that crossed from ear to ear, waves that were sun bleached on the top. His nose was aquiline, his mouth was thin-lipped and rather small. He had large ears. His eyebrows were bushy and his lashes were long and thick. His forehead was broad but was not unusual except that it was very smooth while the skin of his face, which was rather florid, had enlarged pores here and there. His hands were wide across the back and his fingers were strong; his shoulders and arms were muscular. He walked quickly with a natural swing. He had a ready smile and even teeth. His voice was pleasant. He was twenty-four. One was struck by the sadness in his face, the careworn lines about his mouth and eyes. *1* Landel shook Dennison’s shoulder. "Whatcha want?" Dennison mumbled, raising himself on one elbow and unconsciously pushing aside his blanket. "The supply trucks have come," Landel yelled. "Who’s come?" "The trucks and tanks are here. Three trucks have brought supplies. We’ve got food. Are you awake? Hey, do you hear me?" "What did you say? Sure, sure, I’m awake," Dennison replied hazily. He squinted and ducked as Landel shot the beam of his flashlight directly into his face. Landel knelt down beside Dennison and fumbled about the floor of the abandoned plank and sandbag irrigation shack for his tank helmet. His tall body almost filled the place. His bald head looked repulsively bald to Dennison--something surgical. "I let ya sleep a little longer than the other guys," Landel yelled. "Yeah, you needed sleep." He shifted his flashlight around the crude shack, over the mounds of blankets where their crewmates had been sleeping. "Our kitchen’s here! The trucks are here ... three of them," he repeated.