It was about then that the park police stumbled across the defunct sales manager's broken form. It was already a long time after Mr. Chisholm had temporarily forgotten all about Hardy and Firrel and Maizie and Lonigan and the theater party. For in some places a matter of a couple of hours or so seems longer. It was that way where Mr. Chisholm was. * * * * * First, there was all that tiresome marching. Chisholm found himself on a vast gray plain under a dull leaden sky, marching, marching, marching. It was odd that it tired him so, for it was effortless and timeless and the distances, though interminable, seemed meaningless. It must have been the monotony of it. And then, also, he found those marching with him strangely disturbing. Some were healthy-looking men like himself, except that most of them were gashed or mangled in some way, as if hurled through plate glass or smashed by bombs. Others were haggard and pallid, as if coming from sickbeds. But it was the soldiers that got him most. He had forgotten about the war. It had touched him but slightly, though his impressions of it had been irritating, but not in a flesh and blood way. The silly business of priorities, price controls and sales taxes had annoyed him exceedingly, and the outrageous income-tax boosts had infuriated him. Now he was getting another slant on the conflict, for hordes--armies--of soldiers were marching along with him. They were of every kind--Russians, Japs, Tommies, Nazis, even American bluejackets and soldiers--and mingled with them were miserable-looking civilians of every race. A pair of wretched-looking Polish Jews walking near him had obviously been hanged but a short time before. Chisholm edged away from them in horrified disgust. He was beginning to tumble to the fact that he was dead, and was getting restive with the monotonous tramping across the plain. He had never been a devout man, or even a philosophical one, so he had little idea of what to expect, except that certain childhood memories or notions kept intruding themselves upon his consciousness. Wasn't there some sort of trial coming to him? Not that the prospect worried him much. At least, not very much. For he had always dealt justly with people according to his lights, he insisted to himself. He couldn't help it if there were venal people, or weaklings, or would-be tough eggs that had to be pushed around. Nobody could be expected to get through life without handling such types in the most appropriate way. But where, oh where, was the judge that would pass judgment?