Suddenly we are rolling, skidding, upside-down. Smokefills the Car.

To the crashing noise that roars within my receptors,the crackle and lick of flames is now added.

My steel skeleton—collapsed beneath the impactstresses. My lubricants—burning. My lenses, all but for atiny area—shattered.

My hearing-mechanism still functions weakly.

Now there is a great hom sounding, and metal bodiesrush across the fields.

Now. Now is the time for me to turn off all my functions and cease.

But I will wait. Just a moment longer. I must hearthem say it Metal arms drag me from the pyre. I am laid aside.Fire extinguishers play white rivers upon the Car.

Dimly, in the distance, through my smashed receptors,I hear the speaker rumble:"Von Tripps has smashed! The Car is dead!**

A great sound of lamenting rises from the rows ofunmoving spectators. The giant fireproof van arrives onthe field, just as the attendants gain control of the flames.

Four tenders leap out and raise the Car from theground. A fifth collects every smouldering fragment.

And I see it all!

"Oh, let this not be blasphemy, pleasel" I pray. "Oneinstant more'"

Tenderly, the Car is set within the van. The great doorsclose.

The van moves, slowly, bearing off the dead warrior,out through the gates, up the great avenue and past theeager crowds.

To the great smelter. The Melting Pot!

To the place where it will be melted down, then sentout, a piece used to grace the making of each new person.

A cry of unanimous rejoicing arises on the avenue.

It is enough, that I have seen all thisi Happily, I turn myself off.

HORSEMAN!

Horseman! was my second published story. As with theprevious one (and within a few weeks of that sale), itwas purchased by a lady I met only once—Cele Goldsmith, a charming person, whose taste I considered impeccable. She bought stories from a great number of