Some Sorts Of Truth Are Truer Than

Everything Is Good . . . As Long As It Is Unpossessed. Satiety And Possession Are Death's Horses They Run In Span.

The Ghostly Winter Silence Had Given Way To The Great Spring Murmur Of Awakening Life.

But Under It All They Were Men, Penetrating The Land Of Desolation And Mockery And Silence, Puny Adventurers Bent On Colossal Adventure, Pitting Themselves Against The Might Of A World As Remote And Alien And Pulseless As The Abysses Of Space.

Fear Urged Him To Go Back, But Growth Drove Him On.

And Not Only Did He Learn By Experience, But Instincts Long Dead Became Alive Again. The Domesticated Generations Fell From Him. In Vague Ways He Remembered Back To The Youth Of The Breed, To The Time The Wild Dogs Ranged In Packs Through The Primeval Forest And Killed Their Meat As They Ran It Down.