by Isaac Asimov
I hastened back to the room, panting a little, and found Azazel humming to himself some tune favored by the entities of his world. Really, their taste in what they call music is atrocious.
"His memory is gone," I said, "and, I hope, permanently."
"Of course," said Azazel. "The next step, now, is to consider the saser itself. Its structure must be very neatly and precisely organized if it can actually magnify sound at the expense of Earth's internal heat. No doubt, a tiny disruption at some key point-something that may be within my mighty powers-could wipe out all saser activity. Exactly where is it located?"
I stared at him thunderstruck. "How should I know?" I said.
He stared at me, probably thunderstruck also, but I can never make out the expressions on his tiny face. "Do you mean to say you had me wipe out his memory before you obtained that vital piece of information? "
"It never occurred to me," I said.
"But if the saser exists, if his belief was based on objective truth, someone else may stumble upon it, or a large animal might, or a meteorite might strike it-and at any moment, day or night, all life on Earth may be destroyed."
"Good Lord!" I muttered.
Apparently my distress moved him, for he said, "Come, come, my friend, look at the bright side. The worst that can happen is that human beings will all be wiped out. Just human beings. It's not as though they're people!"
Having completed his tale, George said, despondently, "And there you are. I have to live with the knowledge that the world may come to an end at any moment."
"Nonsense," I said, heartily, "Even if you've told me the truth about this Hannibal West, which, if you will pardon me, is by no means assured, he may have been having a sick fantasy."
George looked haughtily down his nose at me for a moment, then said, "I would not have your unlovely tendency toward skepticism for all the loveliest saminis on Azazel's native world. How do you explain this?"
He withdrew a small clipping from his wallet. It was from yesterday's New York Times and was headed "A Dim Rumble." It told of a dim rumble that was perturbing the inhabitants of Grenoble, France.
"One explanation, George," I said, "is that you saw this article and made up the whole story to suit."
For a moment, George looked as though he would explode with indignation, but when I picked up the rather substantial check that the waitress had placed between us, softer feelings overcame him, and we shook hands on parting, amiably enough.
And yet I must admit I haven't slept well since. I keep sitting up at about 2:30 A.M., listening for the dim rumble I could swear had roused me from sleep.
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