“Do you know what those rows of white bumps are out there?”

“... Those are elderly. There they drag themselves into the glow out of fear of the others, choosing instead to grow sick and die in mounds of clay, with only their heads sticking out.

“Food and water is brought to them by the stronger ones. I don’t know the reason why they do it. It would be so much obviously better if they let them die. One might be inclined to suppose they need of others to feel sorry for.”

He shivers, and rubs his teeth with a knuckle.

“I think we will have to go by them,” I say. “Will they attack us?”

“They may.” He throws a look around himself that is nervous but not exactly frightened. He is excited and terrified.

“Sometimes they attack on sight. Other times, they watch and do nothing, or take no notice at all. But might they. But these are so weak, not really dangerous. The stronger ones are further inside, to cope.”

“They aren’t affected by the ruins?”

“No, just the noise. The ruins they stay away from. I think they dig up or dowse for or perhaps they even drill for their water.”

“Do you mean the noise of the trees?”

“They are compelled to fight irritably,” he says. “That noise, their condition, all this—” he gestures around himself vaguely, “—sibilantly grates on their nerves until they can’t help themselves.—Your men are near? ... These people I’ve seen fall on each other for no cause at all. Once, I saw a group of no more than six of them sitting together in a rough circle. One of them began to sway and squeeze his head in his hands. The sound was driving him mad. Not another instant could he stand it. He began to cry out—”

And here the enemy narrator actually imitates him, a series of forced howls ringing at the back of the throat, each one a single breath.

“Then he vomited naturally, and, still vomiting, he turned on the one closest him. It was all he could do, he had no choice.”

The narrator’s voice seems to be choking him.

“They flew at him, just to have the relief.”

His breathing becomes labored with emotion.

A voice calls my name, not too far away. The patrol is looking for me. The narrator can’t have failed to hear them, but he keeps talking.

“They beat him to death. Then they went back and resumed their places conscientiously.”

He turns his eyes to me, something wrong in them.

“There’s a noise within the noise, like glass rubbing that nobody can take that forever and ever, without a moment’s suspension.”

He looks at me, and his breath is ragged, something horrible coming into his face.

Voices call to me again.

He stares at me, horror in his look. A thin, wheezing cry comes from his convulsing mouth.

“It’s the war,” I try to tell him. “You’ve got the war!”