THEAKER’S 39
21
THORNTON
ended up on the grave on top of the bombed cathedral just as etiquette demands. But the friends of the bridge responded to the loss of their friend by killing the east wind that was making their railings sing; and so the other winds killed a radio transmission that was passing through the atmosphere shortly afterwards; and the friends of that particular frequency sent an offensive message into space that would kill with shame the satellite that received it. And so on. Months, years, centuries passed . . . One day a robot found himself passing through the churchyard. He saw the tower of dead objects and his scientific curiosity was engaged. Extending his arms, he climbed to the summit and sat there with a dreamy look in his crystal eyes. “This tower contains a single example of everything in the world and many things outside it,” he said to himself, “with the exception of—” Suddenly he lost his balance and toppled over the edge. He was so high that the Earth was only the size of an alien fruit below him. As he accelerated he dimly wondered what the juice of that fruit might taste like. The answer was oil and electrons. But that, in fact, was his own juice after he landed. While he cooled in pieces beside the grave of Thornton Excelsior, his friends brought a newly slaughtered human to lay on top of him . . .
(4) ARMS AGAINST A SEA
I found an arm washed up on the beach, not a real arm but a carved one, a marble block chiselled into the shape of a slender female limb. It emerged from the midnight waves like the final gesture of a drowned swimmer, its pale fingers digging into the sand, a loop of seaweed around its wrist for a bracelet, its elbow jabbing a moonbeam. I hurried through the surf to rescue the arm, but the moment I picked it up I couldn’t be sure who was the holder, who the held. That is always the way with castaway arms, so I used it as a crutch to help me back to shore, and when I