Caterham has said that again and again--clearly--their world or ours." "We are not half a hundred now," said another, "and they are endless millions." "So it may be.

But the thing is as I have said." Then another long silence.
"And are we to die then ?" "God forbid!" "Are they ?" "No." "But that is what Caterham says! He would have us live out our lives, die one by one, till only one remains, and that one at last would die also, and they would cut down all the giant plants and weeds, kill all the giant under-life, burn out the traces of the Food--make an end to us and to the Food for ever.

Then the little pigmy world would be safe.
They would go on--safe for ever, living their little pigmy lives, doing pigmy kindnesses and pigmy cruelties each to the other; they might even perhaps attain a sort of pigmy millennium, make an end to war, make an end to over-population, sit down in a world-wide city to practise pigmy arts, worshipping one another till the world begins to freeze...." In the corner a sheet of iron fell in thunder to the ground.
"Brothers, we know what we mean to do." In a spluttering of light from the searchlights Redwood saw earnest youthful faces turning to his son.
"It is easy now to make the Food.

It would be easy for us to make Food for all the world." "You mean, Brother Redwood," said a voice out of the darkness, "that it is for the little people to eat the Food." "What else is there to do ?" "We are not half a hundred and they are many millions." "But we held our own." "So far." "If it is God's will, we may still hold our own." "Yes.

But think of the dead!" Another voice took up the strain.