Postmarked the Stars

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He was crawling on hands and knees through a world of steam, of greasy mud that sought to engulf him bodily. He could not breathe—yet he must go—get away—out—

His lanky body was sprawled across the bed, arms wide and spread. Hands clawed feebly at the wrinkled covering bunched under it as his head turned with slow, agonized steadiness back and forth on the slightly raised section at one end of that narrow shelf.

Humid heat, gluey mess holding him—but he must keep going. It was very necessary—he must!

He was breathing in gasps, which grew into shudders, shaking his whole lean length. And though his eyes were still closed, he endeavored to push himself up and away from the surface on which he lay.

He could see—his eyes relayed a message to his brain—that he was not crawling over any steam-pillared swamp. Instead, he lifted his head higher to look at walls that appeared to raise and lower rhythmically to his gasping.

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