Constant nodded. “I’ll be all right,” he whispered. “How do you feel?” whispered Salo. “Warm as toast,” whispered Constant. The complaint of a vaguely disturbed sleeper came from the open bedroom window near by. “Aw, somebody,” the sleeper complained, “afo wa, de-yah, ummmmmmmmmmmm.”
“You really all right?” whispered Salo.
“Yes. Fine,” whispered Constant. “Warm as toast.”
“Good luck,” whispered Salo.
“We don’t say that down here,” whispered Constant.
Salo winked. “I’m not from down here,” he whispered. He looked around at the perfectly white world, felt the wet kisses of the snowflakes, pondered hidden meanings in the pale yellow streetlights that shone in a world so whitely asleep. “Beautiful,” he whispered.
“Isn’t it?” whispered Constant.
“Sim-faw!” cried the sleeper menacingly, to anyone who might menace his sleep. “Soo! A-so! What’s a mabba? Nf.”
“You better go,” whispered Constant.
“Yes,” whispered Salo.
“Good-by,” whispered Constant, “and thanks.”
“You’re entirely welcome,” whispered Salo. He backed into the ship, closed the airlock. The ship arose with the sound of a man blowing over the mouth of a bottle. It disappeared into the swirling snow and was gone.
“Toodle-oo,” it said.
Malachi Constant’s feet squeaked in the snow as he walked to the bench. He brushed aside the snow on the bench and sat down.
“Fraugh!” cried the sleeper, as though he suddenly understood all.
“Braugh!” he cried, not liking at all what he suddenly understood.
“Sup-foe!” he said, saying in no uncertain terms what he was going to do about it.
“Floof!” he cried.
The conspirators presumably fled.
More snow fell.
The bus Malachi Constant was waiting for ran two hours late that morning — on, account of the snow. When the bus did come it was too late. Malachi Constant was dead.
Salo had hypnotized him so that he would imagine, as he died, that he saw his best and only friend, Stony Stevenson.
As the snow drifted over Constant, he imagined that the clouds opened up, letting through a sunbeam, a sunbeam all for him.
A golden space ship encrusted with diamonds came skimming down the sunbeam, landed in the untouched snow of the street.
Out stepped a stocky, red-headed man with a big cigar. He was young. He wore the uniform of the Martian Assault Infantry, Unk’s old outfit.
“Hello, Unk,” he said. “Get in.”
“Get in?” said Constant. “Who are you?”
“Stony Stevenson, Unk. You don’t recognize me?”
“Stony?” said Constant. “That’s you, Stony?”
“Who else could stand the bloody pace?” said Stony. He laughed. “Get in,” he said.
“And go where?” said Constant.
“Paradise,” said Stony.
“What’s Paradise like?” said Constant. “Everybody’s happy there forever,” said Stony, “or as long as the bloody Universe holds together. Get in, Unk. Beatrice is already there, waiting for you.”
“Beatrice?” said Unk, getting into the space ship. Stony closed the airlocks, pressed the on button. “We’re — we’re going to Paradise now?” said Constant. “I — I’m going to get into Paradise?”
“Don’t ask me why, old sport,” said Stony, “but somebody up there likes you.”