Twylee opened the oven and peeked in at the cobbler. The aroma of
the simmering apples rushed out and filled the room.

"Could I have some cobbler when it's done?" Marilou asked, her mouth
filling with saliva.

"I'm afraid not, child. It's getting rather late."

The thunder rumbled again--a little closer, a little louder.

The old lady washed the blade of the knife in the sink. "Tell me more of
what your father says, dear," she said as she adjusted the bifocals on
her thin nose and ran her thumb along the length of the knife's blade.

"Oh, nothin' much more. He just says that you'd kill us if you had th'
chance. That's the way the inferior races always act, he says. They want
to kill th' people that help 'em, 'cause they resent 'em."

"Very interesting."

"Well, it isn't so, is it, Aunt Twylee?"

The room was filled with blinding blue-white light, and the walls quaked
at the sound of a monstrous thunderclap.

The old Martian glanced nervously at the clock on the wall. "My, it _is_
getting late," she said as she fondled the knife in her hands.

"You Martians wouldn't do anything like that, would you?"

"You want the truth, don't you, dear?" Aunt Twylee asked, smiling, as
she walked to the table where Marilou sat.

"'Course I do, Aunt Twylee," she said.

Her scream was answered and smothered by the horrendous roar of the
thunder, and the piercing hiss of the rain that fell in sheets. In great
volumes of water, it fell, as though the heavens were attempting to wash
the sins of man from the universe and into non-existence in the void
beyond the void.

* * * * *

Marilou lay beside the other children. Aunt Twylee smiled at them,
closed the bedroom door and returned to the kitchen.

The storm had moved on; the thunder was the faint grumbling of a
pacified old man. What water fell was a monotonous trickle from the
eaves of the lime-washed stone house. Aunt Twylee washed the blood from
the knife and wiped it dry on her apron. She opened the oven and took
out the browned cobbler. Sweet apple juice bubbled to the surface
through the half moons and burst in delights of sugary aroma. The sun
broke through the thinning edge of the thunderhead.

Aunt Twylee brushed a lock of her feathery white hair from her moist
cheek. "Gracious," she said, "I must tidy up a bit before the others
come."

THE END

Transcriber's Note:

This etext was produced from _If Worlds of Scienc