he east.

Behind the wrought-iron fence the dogs slobbered and watched, only
their heads moving. As he went down the gravel drive to the heavy gate
he was conscious of their stares and a coldness moved through him. The
gates opened when he was twenty feet away.

It was growing dark and the breeze seemed stronger. On the road to the
south, the Range Road, the house identified as the old Fisher place
revealed one light in a first-floor room. There were two cars in the
yard.

Doak turned back toward town but paused over the crest of the hill and
sought cover. There was a small grove of hickory and oak to his left.
He walked into their shelter until he was out of any passerby's range
of vision.

Readers wouldn't be any trouble. But printers? If the old mummy was
right in his guess Doak could have more trouble than one man could
handle.

He put his back up against the rough bark of an oak tree and sat
hugging his knees, waiting for the darkness. _Studious let me sit...._
Oh, yes.

Printers--and what would they print? Had any poets been born since the
Arnold Law, any writers? Was there some urge to write in a readerless
world? In the Russian homes, he'd heard, under the machine gods, the
old religion persisted, from parent to child, by word of mouth.

But writers without an audience? An art that persisted without
followers?

That girl, that lovely poised girl-creature had been quick to identify
Thomson and he wasn't one of the giants. If there were others with
equally fertile memories, and they got together, it would be like a
small--what was the word?--a small library.

They could write or print or type the remembered offerings of all the
readers and have a book. Or at least a pamphlet.

It grew darker and he thought of June and wondered, if her memory were
searched, just what would be dredged up. He'd bet it would be one
word--_no_.

And now it was dark enough and he rose and made his way back over the
hill, toward the Fisher place, following the field instead of the
road, keeping to the tall grass, conscious of the crickets and the
night breeze and the light in the first floor room of the Fisher
place.

There was another car in the drive now and he could see a few people
in the room. He could see Martha and next to her an aged man with a
beard like snow. He went past the window and around in back of the
house.

There was an unlatched rear door and he entered a dark rear hall and
put on his infra-scope.