NONSUCH 



rim of things. From that first dry land — shall we 

 say a thousand million years ago — up to the pres- 

 ent moment (which as I write goes to join the 

 billion years) this contest has never ceased for a 

 moment. 



The thought comes to me that to keep from 

 writing as a rank outsider, I should plunge into and 

 pass through this battlefield unprepared, on the 

 impulse of the moment. So I go. 



I have just returned from my pragmatic experi- 

 ment and I would not exchange the experience for 

 anything. Just as the creatures of old had to make 

 their first attack with their sea-evolved equipment, 

 so it seemed fair for me to rise from my desk and 

 walk straight down to the shore without prepara- 

 tion. This was not as drastic a performance as it 

 sounds, quite unlike jumping off a high bridge in 

 full evening dress for a bet, for on Nonsuch my 

 costume consists of three articles of clothing — a 

 woolen shirt, khaki shorts, and a pair of canvas 

 sneakers. 



As I rose from my table I could hear the surf 

 booming on the rocks at the foot of the hillside of 

 cedars. The day was sheer brilliant sunshine, hot 

 and with very little breeze, but from some disturb- 

 ance far to the south the rollers were piling in. I 

 walked comfortably on the mat of soft needles and 

 in the shade of dense foliage — I was a land mam- 

 mal and this was my native habitat. Even so, the 

 eons of years had left me only partly adapted to 



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