Douglas starts to walk with the old man. "Well, maybe I'll see you again, Smith."
"No," says Smith, "I won't be here. This all won't be here. If you come back again, it'll be too late."
Douglas stops. "Hell, hell! What do you want me to do?"
"A simple thing. Leave all this standing. Leave these cities up."
"I can't do that! Damn it. Business reasons. It has to go."
"A man with a real nose for business and some imagination could think up a profitable reason for it to stay," says Smith.
"My car's waiting! How do I get out of here?"
The producer strikes off over a patch of rubble, cuts through half of a tumbled ruin, kicking boards aside, leaning for a moment on plaster facades and strutworks. Dust rains from the sky.
"Watch out!"
The producer stumbles in a thunder of dust and avalanching brick; he gropes, he topples, he is seized upon by the old man and yanked forward.
"Jump!"
They jump, and half the building slides to ruin, crashes into hills and mountains of old paper and lathing. A great bloom of dust strikes out upon the air.
"You all right?"
"Yes. Thanks. Thanks." The producer looks at the fallen building. The dust clears. "You probably saved my life."
"Hardly that. Most of those are papier-mache bricks. You might have been cut and bruised a little."
"Nevertheless, thanks. What building was that that fell?"
"Norman village tower, built in 1925. Don't get near the rest of it; it might go down."
"I'll be careful." The producer moves carefully in to stand by the set-piece. "Why-
-I could push this whole damn building over with one hand." He demonstrates; the building leans and quivers and groans. The producer steps quickly back. "I could knock it down in a second."
"But you wouldn't want to do that," says the watchman.
"Oh, wouldn't I? What's one French house more or less, this late in the day?"
The old man takes his arm. "Walk around here to the other side of the house."
They walk to the other side.
"Read that sign," says Smith.
The producer flicks his cigarette lighter, holds the fire up to help him squint, and reads: "'THE FIRST NATIONAL BANK, MELLIN TOWN.'" He pauses. "'ILLINOIS,'" he says, very slowly.
The building stands there in the sharp light of the stars and the bland light of the moon.
"On one side"--Douglas balances his hand like a scales--"a French tower. On the other side--" He walks seven steps to the right, seven steps to the left, peering. "'THE FIRST NATIONAL BANK.' Bank. Tower. Tower. Bank. Well, I'll be damned."
Smith smiles and says, "Still want to push the French tower down, Mr. Douglas?"
"Wait a minute, wait a minute, hold on, hold on," says Douglas, and suddenly begins to see the buildings that stand before him. He turns in a slow circle; his eyes move up and down and across and over; his eyes flick here, flick there, see this, see that, examine, file, put away, and re-examine. He begins to walk in silence. They move in the cities of the meadow, over grasses and wild flowers, up to and into and through ruins and half ruins and up to and into and through complete avenues and villages and towns.
They begin a recital which goes on and on as they walk, Douglas asking, the night watchman answering, Douglas asking, the night watchman answering.