THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS BY ANDREW FETLER He heard children's voices, but there couldn't be any children--not in that terrible place! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "In the middle of the night," the man said to the landlady over a soft-boiled egg and a slice of toast. "Right under my window." He leaned forward. "You know how children talk to themselves?" "Was it the same voice you heard the first two nights?" Mrs. Tilton asked. "I'm not sure now about the first night. Might have been another voice that first night." "And now it was a child?" "Yes." Mrs. Tilton rose to get the coffee. "Are you quite sure?" "You don't think I'm imagining?" "We have no children," she said. "A neighbor's, no doubt." "There isn't a child in the whole village, Mr. Coat." "That's what puzzles me. Don't you think we ought to report it?" "I'll get your coffee," she said, and went into the kitchen. "I didn't actually _see_ the child," he called to her. "But I'm sure I heard the voice." The woman brought the cup of coffee; she had poured it in the kitchen. The first two mornings, he remembered, she had set the coffee pot on the table. "Aren't you having any?" he asked. "I had mine, thank you. Will you want anything else?" He could see past her into the kitchen--the corner of a large wood-burning stove and a row of brass pots. The floor was flagstoned and a hand pump stood over a sink. "Do you really grow your own strawberries?" he asked. "Yes. Would you like some?" "Very much." Mrs. Tilton went to get the berries. She had forgotten to serve cream with the coffee. The coffee had a bitter taste and a faint smell of iodine. But he was not used to natural coffee. And without cream. He took another sip and slowly stretched his stiff legs. In the window he saw lilac bushes in bloom. "Picked this morning," Mrs. Tilton said, setting a bowl of strawberries before him. "Oh, thank you." He sniffed at the berries. "They smell of earth," he said, smiling at her. "You might like a walk after breakfast," Mrs. Tilton suggested. "Then you can have a restful nap at noon." "Good idea," he said. "Excuse me, but the coffee seems bitter." Mrs. Tilton looked at the old man as if she did not understand. "I'm afraid I'm a nuisance," he apologized, "but I take cream with my coffee." "I'm sorry, I forgot." She brought a small cream pitcher. * * * * * The old man turned the pitcher in his hand. It was lopsided and made of inferior clay "Do you make your own pottery, too?" "Such as it is." "Charming." He set down the pitcher and leaned back with a sigh. "You know, I pretended I did not want a rest, but I could hardly wait to see the country again."