niture amidst these piled immensities. He sat down and crossed his legs, and then put one across the knee of the other, and clutched his boot nervously, and felt small and self-conscious and acutely visible and absurdly placed.
Then at the sound of a voice he forgot himself again.
"You have heard, Brothers," said this voice out of the shadows.
And another answered, "We have heard."
"And the answer, Brothers?"
"To Caterham?"
"Is No!"
"And then?"
There was a silence for the space of some seconds.
Then a voice said: "These people are right. After their lights, that is. They have been right in killing all that grew larger than its kind, beast and plant and all manner of great things that arose. They were right in trying to massacre us. They are right now in saying we must not marry our kind. According to their lights they are right. They know-it is time that we also knew—that you cannot have pigmies and giants in one world together. Caterham has said that again and again—clearly—their world or ours."
"We are not half a hundred now," said another, "and they are endless millions."
"So it may be. But the thing is as I have said."
Then another long silence.
"And are we to die then?"
"God forbid!"
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