It annoyed Jason Wall that everybody talked about death but nobody did anything about it. So he decided to eliminate the pesky nuisance. But in the end he longed for a chance to say, "Fellas—I was only kidding!"
h his bare hands. If First Man was around, he didn't want to frighten him off with gun-fire.
At last, First Man came.
He was, Jason Wall observed with objective detachment, a noble-looking creature. The first true man. Over six feet tall, perfectly proportioned. He looked quite the healthiest man Jason Wall had ever seen. If looks meant anything, he had never known a day of disease in his life, and never would. Jason Wall's determination to kill grew.
He did not have to wait long. When First Man came by his hiding place he stood up, pointed the revolver, and fired it point-blank.
He was, naturally, ready for the end. The death of First Man ought to mean the death of all men, the sudden blotting out, in all ages, of all mankind and all traces of mankind.
First Man fell, mortally wounded. Blood gushed from his nostrils; he died.
And Jason Wall went on existing. He didn't understand. It made no sense. The death of First Man should have brought all humanity in all future
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