By Damon Knight
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Following it with his eyes, Ewing saw something strange. He saw what looked like a line of cars and trucks, spaced almost bumper to bumper, climbing the mountain road. There was a wrecker, followed by a red convertible, two moving vans with dusty red sides, three panel trucks, two latemodel sedans with glossy aluminum trailers, and a small gasoline tank truck. He grabbed Platt by the arm, pointed. Then he was buck-jumping down the mountainside, with his heart in his mouth, catching a glimpse of the lead car turning in at the top of the road.
For a while Dick couldn’t even attract the old man’s attention. He moved in closer, shouldering his way. Fossum’s eyes were red-rimmed and irritable; with his veined beak and the sparse fuzz on his narrow head, he looked like an angry A for Anything 40 fledgling agape for worms. ” he was saying. “One crissal cennerpiece with roses and wot? Lillies of the velley . . all right. And a hunnerd wot? Balloons? Wy dint you say so? Dont all holler by same time. Wait half a minute, can’t you . . seventeen sconces, I got det.
In the corridor, two slobs in light overalls were taking down the wall panels one at a time and putting up new ones, identical except that the old ones were turning blue-green with corrosion, and these were shining new bronze, fresh from the Gismo. Dick recognized the figures of the bas-reliefs as old friends; they had been in the corridor all his life, slowly changing from bright to dull in an eternal rhythm. He paused to look at a familiar hand clutching a rifle stock, and at the familiar hard-set face above it, both glittering raw, bright metal—newly reborn.