So Ben looked at the flat ground where those hundred bodies lay, with only small rocks the size of a man's fist with names scratched on them to mark who lay beneath; and he thought of his daughter May, and Owen Urey's son George who'd married May, and their three kids, and he remembered burying them there; he remembered their faces. The blood from eyes, nose, ears, mouth--_his_ blood it was, part of it. Then Ben looked up. "We ain't looking for trouble," he said to the empty blue bowl of sky. "But if you do come, we're ready. Every day we're ready. If you stay up high, we'll hide. But if you come down low, we'll try to get you, you crazy murderers." * * * * * His house was only a few yards farther on; he got there by sticking under the trees, walking quickly from one to the next, his ears cocked for the jetsound that would flatten him against a trunk. Way off to his left, across a long flat of sunflowers and goldenrod, he saw Windy Harris down on the creekbank, by the bridge. He yelled, "They biting?"--and Windy's faint "Got two!" reminded him of all old Jim had said, and he shook his head. He left the trees and walked fast up his front path. His house was in pretty good shape. All four houses on the outskirts had come off standing--his and Windy's and Jim's and Owen Urey's. They'd needed just a little bracing here and there, and they were fine--except Owen's. Owen had stomped around in his, and listened to the sounds of it, and said he didn't trust it--and sure enough, the first big storm it had gone down. Now Ben and his wife Susan lived downstairs in his house; Joe Kincaid and his wife Anna lived on the second floor; and Tom Pace lived in the attic, claiming that climbing the stairs was good for his innards. Anna Kincaid was sitting on the porch-swing, peeling potatoes. Ben said, "Afternoon, Anna," and saw her pale bright eyes flicker up at him, and that scared smile touched her mouth for just a second; then she hunched her shoulders and kept on with the potatoes, like he wasn't even there. Ben thought, _It must be lonely to be that way_--and he attracted her attention again, his voice a little louder: "Hope you're feeling fine, Anna." Again the flicker of eyes. "Just fine, Ben, thanks," she said, almost in a whisper. "Peeling spuds." "I see." Her knife sped over a potato, removing a spiral of skin. She popped out an eye with a twist of the point. "Think Keith'll be back from the war today, Ben? It's been so long ... I hate to think o' my boy fighting out there so long. Will they let him come home soon, Ben?" "They will, Anna. I think they will, real soon. Maybe tomorrow." "_Will they?_" "Sure."