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Tale of the 'Evans, v. 4, issue 2, Spring 1946
Page 4
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"PERHAPS YOU KNOW ME." By Algis Budrys. Halt, Wayfarer. Listen to me. Do you recognize my voice? Ayes, I know you. I know your face, and your form. But your name is unknown to me. Listen, then. Listen to the sobbing of the gypsy violin, and the weird chant of the aborigine. Do your ears hear the Te Drum? Do you hear a wind, shrieking through the trees, like a tempest? A wind that is the tortured cry of millions? Do you hear the crying of the newborn babe? Aye, I hear them all. And I hear the Scottish bagpipe, and the voice of the brazen gong. I hear the church bells, and I hear another voice. A might voice, that is the clash of metal on metal, forming it, turning it to useful things. 'Tis well. You know my name. But do you really know my shape? Nay, I cannot say I know it at all. Look you well, then. You see the flowing river? And the mighty ocean, that beats incessantly against the rock that is but another part of myself? You see the soaring peak? And the cloud above it? The tiny rivulet that wends its way laboriously seaward? Aye, I see them. I see the mighty cities, too, that stretch their great stone fingers skyward. I see the ships, of air and sea, that ply between them. But I do not know your name, nor what you are. You have told me of what you are made, but you have not told me what you call yourself. Think back. Perhaps you know me. My name is MAN. 4
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"PERHAPS YOU KNOW ME." By Algis Budrys. Halt, Wayfarer. Listen to me. Do you recognize my voice? Ayes, I know you. I know your face, and your form. But your name is unknown to me. Listen, then. Listen to the sobbing of the gypsy violin, and the weird chant of the aborigine. Do your ears hear the Te Drum? Do you hear a wind, shrieking through the trees, like a tempest? A wind that is the tortured cry of millions? Do you hear the crying of the newborn babe? Aye, I hear them all. And I hear the Scottish bagpipe, and the voice of the brazen gong. I hear the church bells, and I hear another voice. A might voice, that is the clash of metal on metal, forming it, turning it to useful things. 'Tis well. You know my name. But do you really know my shape? Nay, I cannot say I know it at all. Look you well, then. You see the flowing river? And the mighty ocean, that beats incessantly against the rock that is but another part of myself? You see the soaring peak? And the cloud above it? The tiny rivulet that wends its way laboriously seaward? Aye, I see them. I see the mighty cities, too, that stretch their great stone fingers skyward. I see the ships, of air and sea, that ply between them. But I do not know your name, nor what you are. You have told me of what you are made, but you have not told me what you call yourself. Think back. Perhaps you know me. My name is MAN. 4
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