A high-pitched male voice said: "Citizen Germyn, good morning." Germyn was caught off balance. He took his eyes off the sky, half turned, glanced at the face of the person who had spoken to him, raised his hand in the assurance-of-identity sign. It was all very quick and fluid--almost too quick, for he had had his fingers bent nearly into the sign for female friends and this was a man. Citizen Boyne. Germyn knew him well; they had shared the Ice Viewing at Niagara a year before. Germyn recovered quickly enough, but it had been disconcerting. He improvised swiftly: "There are stars, but are stars still there if there is no Sun?" It was a hurried effort, he grieved, but no doubt Boyne would pick it up and carry it along. Boyne had always been very good, very graceful. Boyne did no such thing. "Good morning," he said again, faintly. He glanced at the stars overhead, as though trying to unravel what Germyn was talking about. He said accusingly, his voice cracking sharply: "There isn't any Sun, Germyn. What do you think of that?" Germyn swallowed. "Citizen, perhaps you--" "No Sun, you hear me!" the man sobbed. "It's cold, Germyn. The Pyramids aren't going to give us another Sun, do you know that? They're going to starve us, freeze us; they're through with us. We're done, all of us!" He was nearly screaming. All up and down Pine Street, people were trying not to look at him and some of them were failing. Boyne clutched at Germyn helplessly. Revolted, Germyn drew back--_bodily contact!_ It seemed to bring the man to his senses. Reason returned to his eyes. He said: "I--" He stopped, stared about him. "I think I'll have bread for breakfast," he said foolishly, and plunged into the stall. Boyne left behind him a shaken Citizen, caught halfway into the wrist-flip of parting, staring after him with jaw slack and eyes wide, as though Germyn had no manners, either. All this on Sun Re-creation Day! What could it mean? Germyn wondered fretfully, worriedly. Was Boyne on the point of-- Could Boyne be about to-- Germyn drew back from the thought. There was one thing that might explain Boyne's behavior. But it was not a proper speculation for one Citizen to make about another. All the same--Germyn dared the thought--all the same, it _did_ seem almost as though Citizen Boyne were on the point of--well, running amok. * * * * * At the oatmeal stall, Glenn Tropile thumped on the counter. The laggard oatmeal vendor finally brought the ritual bowl of salt and the pitcher of thin milk. Tropile took his paper twist of salt from the top of the neatly arranged pile in the bowl. He glanced at the vendor. His fingers hesitated. Then, quickly, he ripped the twist of paper into his oatmeal and covered it to the permitted level with the milk. He ate quickly and efficiently, watching the street outside.