Herkimer stretched his arms and folded them over his head.
He tried to examine his mind, to arrive at motives and evaluations, but it was hard to do. No rancor, certainly. No jealousy. No bitterness. But a nagging feeling of inadequacy, of almost having reached the goal and falling short.
But there was comfort, he thought. There was comfort if there was nothing else.
And that comfort must be kept. Kept for the little ones, for the ones that were less than Man.
He lay for a long time, thinking about comfort watching the dark square of the window with the rime of frost upon it and the stars shining through the frost, listening to the thin whine of the feeble, vicious weasel-wind as it knifed across the roof.
Sleep did not come and he got up at last and turned on the light. Shivering, he got into his clothes and pulled a book out of his pocket. Huddling close to the lamp, he turned the pages to a passage worn thin with reading.
There is no thing, no matter how created, how born or how conceived or made, which knows the pulse of life, that goes alone. That assurance I can give you…
He closed the book and held it clasped between the palms of his two hands.
"…how born or how conceived or made… "
Made.