They ve walked over us. The death of that one at Weybridge was an
accident. And these are only pioneers. They kept on coming. These green
stars I ve seen none these five or six days, but I ve no doubt they re
falling somewhere every night. Nothing s to be done. We re under! We re
beat!
I made him no answer. I sat staring before me, trying in vain to devise
some countervailing thought.
This isn t a war, said the artilleryman. It never was a war, any
more than there s war between man and ants.
Suddenly I recalled the night in the observatory.
After the tenth shot they fired no more at least, until the first
cylinder came.
How do you know? said the artilleryman. I explained. He thought.
Something wrong with the gun, he said. But what if there is? They ll
get it right again. And even if there s a delay, how can it alter the
end? It s just men and ants. There s the ants builds their cities, live
their lives, have wars, revolutions, until the men want them out of the
way, and then they go out of the way. That s what we are now just ants.
Only
Yes, I said.
We re eatable ants.
We sat looking at each other.
And what will they do with us? I said.
That s what I ve been thinking, he said; that s what I ve been
thinking. After Weybridge I went south thinking. I saw what was up.
Most of the people were hard at it squealing and exciting themselves.
But I m not so fond of squealing. I ve been in sight of death once or
twice; I m not an ornamental soldier, and at the best and worst,
death it s just death. And it s the man that keeps on thinking comes
through. I saw everyone tracking away south. Says I, Food won t last
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