But that was a week past. He slept in a good house on Mars Avenue, rose mornings at nine, bathed, and idled to town for ham and eggs. No morning passed that he didn‘t freeze a ton of meats, vegetables, and lemon cream pies, enough to last ten years, until the rockets came back from Earth, if they ever came.
Now, tonight, he drifted up and down, seeing the wax women in every colourful shop window, pink and beautiful. For the first time he knew how dead the town was. He drew a glass of beer and sobbed gently.
"Why," he said, "I’m all alone."
He entered the Elite Theatre to show himself a film, to distract his mind from his isolation. The theatre was hollow, empty, like a tomb with phantoms crawling grey and black on the vast screen. Shivering, he hurried from the haunted place.
Having decided to return home, he was striking down the middle of a side street, almost running, when he heard the phone.
He listened.
"Phone ringing in someone‘s house."
He proceeded briskly.
"Someone should answer that phone," he mused.
He sat on a curb to pick a rock from his shoe, idly.
"Someone!" he screamed, leaping. "Me! Good lord, what‘s wrong with me!" he shrieked. He whirled. Which house? That one!
He raced over the lawn, up the steps, into the house, down a dark hall.
He yanked up the receiver.
"Hello!" he cried
Buzzzzzzzzzz.
"Hello, hello!"
They had hung up.
"Hello!" he shouted, and banged the phone. "You stupid idiot!" he cried to himself. "Sitting on that curb, you fool! Oh, you damned and awful fool!" He squeezed the phone. "Come on, ring again! Come on!"