Sitting in his attic studio, Scobee Trent thought grimly of these things. It has been said that the World War was a war to end war. Perhaps it was. Though one might say in like manner that a man committed suicide to escape death. By the War little has been accomplished. The minds of men are still as chaotic as ever. There are easily as many criminals. But at least the War taught men to view death lightly, for sometimes life itself is as grim as death. So had it become to Scobee Trent. It was hard for him to take a philosophical view of his condition. Everything was changed. Rad was gone. Dallis beyond his reach. No longer could he see the sun or the cloud ships sailing the deep blue skies. How he had loved to dream about those phantom ships when he was a small boy.
There came a night when Scobee could not sleep. He lay and tossed upon his pillow in almost utter anguish. He felt as though he
could not go on. Those meshes of blackness
