Brrrrinnnng. Another cottage ahead, as if it knew of his passing. He began to run. The ringing stayed behind. Only to be taken up by a ringing from now this house--Brrrrinnnng! now that, now here, there! He turned the corner. A phone! He darted on. Another corner. Another phone! “All right, all right!” he shrieked, exhausted. “I’m coming!” “Hello, Barton.” “What do you want!” “I’m lonely. I only live when I speak. So I must speak. You can’t shut me up forever.” “Leave me alone!” said the old man, in horror. “Oh, my heart!” “This is Barton, age twenty-four. Another couple of years gone. Waiting. A little lonelier. I’ve read War and Peace, drunk sherry, run restaurants with myself as waiter, cook, entertainer. And tonight, I star in a film at the Tivoli--Emil Barton in Love’s Labor Lost, playing all the parts, some with wigs, myself!” “Stop calling me,” the old man’s eyes were fiery and insane. “Or I’ll kill you!” “You can’t kill me. You’ll have to find me, first!” “I’ll find you!” A choking. “You’ve forgotten where you hid me. I’m everywhere in Mars, in boxes, in houses, in cables, towers, underground! Go ahead, try! What’ll you call it? Telecide? Suicide? Jealous, are you? Jealous of me here, only twenty-four, bright-eyed, strong, young, young, young? All right, old man, it’s war! Between us. Between me! A whole regiment of us, all ages from twenty to sixty, against you, the real one. Go ahead, declare war!” “I’ll kill you!” screamed Barton. Click. Silence. “Kill you!” He threw the phone out the window, shrieking. In the midnight cold, the ancient automobile moved in deep valleys. Under Barton’s feet on the floorboard were revolvers, rifles, dynamite. The roar of the car was in his thin, tired bones. I’ll find them, he thought. Find and destroy, all of them. Oh, God, God, how can he do this to me? He stopped the car. A strange town lay under the late twin moons. There was no wind. He held the rifle in his cold hands. He peered at the poles, the towers, the boxes. Where? Where was this town’s voice hidden? That tower? Or that one there! Where! So many years ago. So long gone. So forgotten. He turned his head now this way, now that, wildly. It must be that tower! Was he certain? Or this box here, or the transformer half up that tower? He raised the rifle. The tower fell with the first bullet. All of them, he thought. All of the towers in this town will have to be cut apart. I’ve forgotten. Too long. The car moved along the silent street. Brrrrinnnng! He looked at the deserted drugstore. Brrrrinnnng! Pistol in hand, he shot the lock off the door, and entered. Click. “Hello, Barton? Just a warning. Don’t try to rip down all the towers, blow things up. Cut your own throat that way. Think it over....” Click. He stepped out of the phone booth slowly and moved into the street and listened to the telephone towers humming high in the air, still alive, still untouched. He looked at them and then he understood.