need never fear the dust
again. Patrick is a living proof of that," she continued triumphantly,
standing straighter, holding him a little tighter. "Look at him. Not a
scar or a sign, and he's been out in the dust for years. How could he be
this way, if the dust hurt the brave? Oh, believe me, Hank! Believe what
you see. Test it if you want. Test Patrick here."

"Effie, you're all mixed up. You don't know--" Hank faltered, but
without conviction of any sort.

"Just test him," Effie repeated with utter confidence, ignoring--not
even noticing--Patrick's warning nudge.

"All right," Hank mumbled. He looked at the stranger dully. "Can you
count?" he asked.

Patrick's face was a complete enigma. Then he suddenly spoke, and his
voice was like a fencer's foil--light, bright, alert, constantly
playing, yet utterly on guard.

"Can I count? Do you take me for a complete simpleton, man? Of course I
can count!"

"Then count yourself," Hank said, barely indicating the table.

"Count myself, should I?" the other retorted with a quick facetious
laugh. "Is this a kindergarten? But if you want me to, I'm willing." His
voice was rapid. "I've two arms, and two legs, that's four. And ten
fingers and ten toes--you'll take my word for them?--that's twenty-four.
A head, twenty-five. And two eyes and a nose and a mouth--"

"With this, I mean," Hank said heavily, advanced to the table, picked up
the Geiger counter, switched it on, and handed it across the table to
the other man.

But while it was still an arm's length from Patrick, the clicks began to
mount furiously, until they were like the chatter of a pigmy machine
gun. Abruptly the clicks slowed, but that was only the counter shifting
to a new scaling circuit, in which each click stood for 512 of the old
ones.

* * * * *

With those horrid, rattling little volleys, fear cascaded into the room
and filled it, smashing like so much colored glass all the bright
barriers of words Effie had raised against it. For no dreams can stand
against the Geiger counter, the Twentieth Century's mouthpiece of
ultimate truth. It was as if the dust and all the terrors of the dust
had incarnated themselves in one dread invading shape that said in words
stronger than audible speech, "Those were illusions, whistles in the
dark. This is reality, the dreary, pitiless reality of the Burrowing
Years."

Hank scuttled back to the wall. Through chattering teeth he babbled,