it was barely past dawn when he awoke. he tried to fall asleep again and failed. giving up, he dressed and wandered into the other room and the garden beyond. he felt the early morning coolness slipping over his shoulders like a garment, and a sense of the futility of all his struggling filled him. he felt a sudden longing to rest, bask in the sun, live as the natives did in sunny, amiable unconcern.

he stiffened, annoyed at himself. that would mean giving up everything he had worked so hard for all his life, ending up as a lazy failure. he felt a surge of anger inside him toward something he could hardly name.

as he stood there, he saw two nemarian children, a boy and a girl about five years old, emerge from the trees and begin to pick the shimmering flowers in the garden. irritation rose hotly in him. he knew that it was out of proportion, built out of a hundred frustrating incidents, but he found he didn't want to control it. he wanted to lash out at somebody.

"stop stealing my flowers!" he yelled. he was surprised at the harshness of his own voice.