from memory the satirical Popov’s Dream. Tensely I watched

Joiwind pointed to it, as it went by. "I love that beast, grotesque as it is - perhaps all the more for its grotesqueness. But if I had children of my own, would I still love it? Which is best - to love two or three, or to love all?"

"Every woman can't be like you, Joiwind, but it is good to have a few like you. Wouldn't it be as well," he went on, "since we've got to walk through that sun - baked wilderness, to make turbans for our heads out of some of those long leaves?"

She smiled rather pathetically. "You will think me foolish, but every tearing off of a leaf would be a wound in my heart. We have only to throw our robes over our heads."

"No doubt that will answer the same purpose, but tell me - weren't these very robes once part of a living creature?"

"Oh, no - no, they are the webs of a certain animal, but they have never been in themselves alive."

"You reduce life to extreme simplicity," remarked Maskull meditatively, "but it is very beautiful."

Climbing back over the hills, they now without further ceremony began their march across the desert.

They walked side by side. Joiwind directed their course straight toward Poolingdred. From the position of the sun, Maskull judged their way to lie due north. The sand was soft and powdery, very tiring to his naked feet. The red glare dazed his eyes, and made him semi - blind. He was hot, parched, and tormented with the craving to drink; his undertone of pain emerged into full consciousness.