"What good is it?" he said derisively, to conceal his astonishment. "It is a child's plaything!" He tried to pry out the arrowhead with his thumb, and broke his nail. "If any child of mine played with this," said the young woman, "I should beat him." She put a larger arrow into the bow--one that had a heavier tip--and shot it into the same tree. Owing to its superior balance, this arrow did not wobble; it swished through the air and sank its tip deep into the soft wood. "You have no child," said her mate, "so how can you beat it?" The young woman said nothing, but she looked angry. "My other women have children," he went on tauntingly. "They laugh at you." "You have no child younger than ten seasons!" she said, and stamped her foot. "_That_ is why I have no child! You are an old man!" He started toward her with a look of furious intention. He had no spear in his hand, but he held a club with flint splinters stuck in the heavy head. She ran back to the cave mouth and put another arrow in her bow and aimed it at him. They both stood silently staring at one another. Then he threw down his club and turned away. "Peace," he said. "Peace," she replied, and dropped her bow. She went to the pot over the fire and sniffed it, poking at the meat with a sharp stick. "The food is ready," she said. "Will you take the pot off the fire? You have braver hands than I." * * * * * Q. How are we to find out anything about them, when you are so slow? A. What are we supposed to find out? Q. That is what you are supposed to find out. A. I am to find out what I am to find out? You sound like them--like men. Q. Like Man? A. No, men. The women aren't quite the same. That's why I always choose to be one, but I wish you would send somebody else--another part of our Organism. I'm tired. Q. Absurd. Besides, you are the best; you cannot be tired. A. The best! How am I the best? You do nothing but criticize. You send me because I understand the intentions--the leanings--of live things. You say I understand understanding. I suppose that makes me some kind of epistemologist: the father confessor of the inscrutable. Q. Wouldn't it be mother confessor? A. Not with them; they don't like women to be priests. They can be holy, but they don't like women to tell them what to do. It's called nagging. They get especially angry if the woman is right. Q. Hmm. Now you say that we criticize you. You surely are not going to claim to be above criticism _here_, are you? A. Oh, no. I'm beneath it. Q. Then why do you resent it? A. Because it doesn't apply. If a mother is not a fool, she will correct her child, but she won't blame it. You can't go looking for good and evil motives in everything that happens. Does a stone have a motive when it falls to the ground?