"God damn!" That's the way he would say it, sort of emphatic-like, but not connected with blasphemy. "Here I go again," he said out loud. Howey sat up quickly. Throwing his legs over the side of the cot to the floor, he stiffened his body. "I'll smile and frustrate them and make them chisel out two more tons,' he exclaimed. The Egyptian face to last a million years. "Away with you, you dirty slaves. Go build my tomb."

Howey got up and dragged himself to the kitchen. Groping along the wall, he struck the light switch. What to eat? Starving for three days-three weeks, and nothing to eat. "This scorching sun tears into my flesh, blinds my eyes," he said. Staggering to the sink and wrenching on the faucet, Howey observed the partially opened cabinet above his head.

"The enemy is hiding behind the cans on the shelves." They were attacking. The battle was on! Roll the pie tin, the command came. ROLL! ROLL! The pie tin slid neatly along the counter and vibrated in front of a tomato can.

Three weeks on the desert and nothing to eat. Ah! Was it a mirage? Howey stumbled to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. Shark blubber. Nothing but shark blubber. He surveyed the dishes and plastic bags on the refrigerator shelves. "Nothing to eat but shark blubber and bread," he mused. "But man shall not live on blubber alone."

Howey rummaged through the container and salvaged enough to construct a sandwich. He poured a glass of milk and went into the living room.

Damn, damn, damn, he thought in a series. Why life, why here. Who what when why where. The elements of an article his high school paper taught. Who? "I am Alexander Morton, N.B." Nobody. "No Body," he said out loud. "Well, if one has existence only as he relates to those about him, I shall relate myself."

He was a son and Mrs. Morton was not a bitch. Howey finished his sandwich and lay on the couch, one calf balanced on top of the other knee. He viewed the huge rubber plant standing in the dark corner.

I am not King Kong or Tarzan of the Apes. I am a Hebrew with Kings in my background. A prince born on Christmas, the gift of the magi. The Lord of Host. Earthbound.

Howey jumped from the couch and ran to the shuttered window. "So we have captured you at last earthling," he shouted. "Let's take him back to our world and show him to our people." "No! Crucify him!" Friends, Romans. Countrymen! This my boon companion has died. I loved him like a brother and even more. Now he is no more.

The oration was lengthy. Howey, head held high, walked back to the couch and lay down. He glanced about the darkened room then shut his eyes. "Ah, well." "Ah well," he said out loud. Dramatically he gestered. "Ah, well" came like a sudden black voice, like the quiet after an explosion. The stage grew dark, as the curtain dropped to the thunder of applause.

Howey awoke with a start. He had fallen into a doze. He glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. Staring at the dark curtains that concealed the window, he pictured the daily scene about to begin. The crunch, crunch of tires upon gravel came as he had anticipated. The slam of the car door indicated that his parents were home.

|| September

I've had enough, Howey thought. I'm ineffectual. Running into the darkness of the kitchen, he held his head in his hands and began to sob. Anguish swept through his body up to and out of his mouth. He raised and lowered his shoulders in an effort to emit a sound but none would come. His head felt as if it would burst