His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children, forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had no appetite, her eyes were webbed shut. "Sunset," said his father, at last. The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded. His mother arose. "I want to see the outside world once more ... just once more...." She stared blindly, shivering. His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall. "I cannot rise," he whispered faintly. "I cannot." "Dark!" The mother croaked, the girl came running. "Here," and Sim was handed to the girl. "Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him." She gave Sim one last fondling touch. Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly. "Go now," said the mother. "Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoy yourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play." Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp, looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried out and somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence. "Why...?" He saw his mother stiffen. "The child spoke!" "Aye," said his father. "Did you hear what he said?" "I heard," said the mother quietly. The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly, swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silent husband. That was the last time he ever saw them move. IV The night came and passed and then started the second day. The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in a funeral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long, the bodies numerous. Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by one hand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk. At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed. Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason? Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to get to it and fly away into space? The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the ground where the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them. The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have their few minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweet air. Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchanged what they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third. They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives. Another piece of his life opened wide. Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rock daggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distant black, low lines of small rock cliffs. "War!" The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These men were running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffs where other people lived. But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing?