"You weren't born in the city?" "I was born in a village no larger than this. Of course it's all gone now, swallowed up by the city. But in those days it was an hour's heliride from the city. I remember a thing or two." Mrs. Tilton watched him drink the coffee. "Not many people left who remember those days," he said. "For instance, did you know that unadjustables--they called them criminals then--were actually electrocuted? Strapped down to a horrible chair--" "Don't you want the strawberries, Mr. Coat?" He looked down at the strawberries in the bowl. "Just imagine--" but he forgot what he had wanted to say. The woman went into the kitchen. He had just finished drinking the coffee when he heard the child's voice in the lane outside the window. The same voice. He crossed to the window and looked out. The lane was empty. "Mrs. Tilton!" He heard no answer. He went into the kitchen. The door to the garden stood open. He saw her working in a vegetable patch. "Pst ... pst!" She looked up. "Did you see the child?" he called. "It must have turned into the garden." Mrs. Tilton straightened herself, holding her back with both hands. "The child?" "The voice, I just heard it again." "I'll be with you in a moment, Mr. Coat." He looked round the kitchen--the antique flagstones, the brass pots, the stove, the hand pump. There was only one anachronism: on the wall by the door, stuck behind a cluster of radishes, was a World Union Telegram. Out in the vegetable patch, he saw Mrs. Tilton was looking about for something. On an impulse he took down the telegram, and read: RECOAT IF VOICES PERSIST TO THIRD MORNING PROCEED EUTHANASIA SUGGEST USING COFFEE FORMULA TWO ADVISE OFFICE OF CHIEF PSYCH WMA He stuck the telegram behind the radishes and looked out the door. Mrs. Tilton was coming with a basket on her arm. "You heard the child again, Mr. Coat?" "Perhaps ... I was mistaken." "Strange, I saw nobody." She put the basket on the kitchen table; it was filled with peas. "Did you have enough coffee?" He nodded. "Aren't you feeling well?" "I ... am fine. Yes." The executioner looked as if she could not make up her mind about him. Then she smiled. She brought out a wooden bowl, and sat down at the table to shell the peas. "Why don't you take your walk now? You'll enjoy our little market place." "Yes." Such a nice day, he thought, shuffling to the window. Spring. * * * * * He had enjoyed the market yesterday until he had noticed that there were no children about. No children at all. Only adult primitives and a few well-trained functionaries like Mrs. Tilton. In the sky in the window he saw a rocket cutting a thin line as it left the atmosphere. "I'll have your bed ready for your noon nap," she said. He turned from the window. "Noon?" "You'll want a nice restful nap then." He had imagined the poisoned coffee would work faster. His heart beating, he said, "Those are peas, aren't they?"