"I thought you were such a learned biologist, Marcella. Kraill would
tell you they were the caskets of questing cells--seeking about for
complementary cells that some day will themselves become the caskets of
cells."

"Ugh! That reminds me of all the clouds of flies on the dead fish in
summer," she said, pushing her plate away. "Flies--then maggots."

"Exactly!" said the doctor, chuckling.

"But--" she began, and broke off, frowning.

"Don't you see any connection between all yon little people and the
monument, though? A crawling mass of folks--and one or two stand out.
The others show they realize how these big ones stand out by making
monuments for them. It infers, I think, that they'd all like to tower
if they could."

"Ah, that's better. But so few tower."

"And that, Marcella, is just what I told you yon day we drove to
Pitleathy. They're all patched--or I should say _we're_ all patched.
Either bodily, mentally or spiritually there are holes torn in us, and
we've to be so busy patching them up from collapsing that we've no time
to grow. As time goes on and we learn better there'll be less patching.
There'll be more growing up tall and straight--everyone--there'll be
giants in those days, Marcella."

"Yes," she said slowly, and saw herself as one of them some day as she