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Show WORTHING FARM/15 the house. Food was cooking in the kitchen. A stew, maybe the same one he had started. Sun was streaking the room as it came through cracks in the east wall. Morning. But yesterday-was it yesterday?- there had been no such cracks there. His body was stiff and sore, but he was able to rise from the bed. He was naked when he cast off the blanket. He fumbled for his clothes. It hurt him to put them on. Still tying the front of his shirt, he walked stiffly into the kitchen. His wife and sons sat in front of the fire, slurping stew out of wooden bowls. They watched him silently. Finally he nodded, and his wife dished some up for him. He stood and ate a little, then set down the half-full bowl and went outside. Eyes but no people followed him. Worthing Farm was a sea of mud, with huge standing puddles everywhere. The trees at the edge were still dripping, and the thatched roof was sagging under the weight of the water it had absorbed. Not a single stalk of grain was standing. There was no sign that any of it had ever been there. Nothing but thick black mud. There was nothing left to save on Worthing Farm. It was too late in the year to plow and plant again. He reached down and plunged his hand up to the forearm into the soft mud. Groping in it he found a stem or two, and pulled out his hand with a great sucking noise. He looked closely at the broken stalks in his fingers. Absent-mindedly he broke the dead plants into pieces. He got up. The house had been soaked, and the wood was shrinking quickly in the sun. The walls and the door would have to |