NOTHING By Martin Pearson [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astonishing Stories, October 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The little man with the gray beard stared at me and I stared back at him. "This is getting us nowhere," I remarked, "nowhere at all." He nodded and sat down on the hard stone. We were trapped under the building. The house had come down over us when the bomb landed in the street. The rest of the tenants were probably away or dead. Apparently only the little old man who lived on the second floor rear and I had gotten down to the bomb-proof cellar in time. And now we were trapped. "We'll have to wait until they dig us out," I said. We couldn't possibly dig our own way out. Too much blocked us in. We were buried beneath tons of brick, rubbish and beams. They were probably busy in the street outside, trying to rescue the people in other, less-damaged buildings. Then again there might be fire, and the noise effectively blocked any chance of their hearing us. I saw him only by the light of my little pocket flash. That wouldn't last very long. Our space was remarkably limited. This shelter had been a part of the cellar. It had been blocked off and roofed over, but even so, part of it fell in--the part with the supplies and stuff--the part opening on the exit. "Well," I said, just to say something, "what do we do now? Sit around and wait to die?" The little old man wrinkled his brow in thought. He didn't seem too worried about dying. I guess when you're his age and have a long gray beard you get reconciled to the prospect. But I was young, and frankly I didn't like the idea at all. "I think I know a way," the little old man said finally, "but it will seem like madness. Probably it is. It's never been tried. It may never work." I seized him by the lapels. "Any way is better than none. I'd rather die trying than sitting down moping my life away. Tell it to me." "You won't laugh? You will take whatever I say seriously?" the little old man asked anxiously. I saw he didn't want to die the object of scorn, and I saw also that he must have something pretty odd up his sleeve. "No," I answered, "you won't hear a peep out of me." "Then," said the old man, "if you can prepare yourself, you could walk out through the rocks." * * * * * In spite of my promise, I gasped. But then I squelched myself and thought that if I was with a lunatic, I might as well make the most of it. He was now the other half of my universe and so standards had changed. Facing death, any straw will do. "Proceed," I said. "Explain further." "Rocks," said the little old man--I guess he must have been a scientist of some sort--"and all other matter are composed of nothing mainly, with a little vibration thrown in."