The delicate global oxygen balance was tipped into the red on Thursday, May 14, 1999, at 4:17 p.m., Greenwich mean time, in the Brazilian rainforest, about three miles from the banks of one of the Xingu's slower tributaries. Resolute and sweating, Pedro Gatai thrust the blade of one of Champion International's No. 8 Cats (overhauled after its breakdown in Mendocino's redwoods) under the recalcitrant roots of a black persimmon tree.

With a double-clutched burst of power he wrenched the life from the ebony wood and at the same moment, from the human race.

Mercifully, most people expired quietly over a period of two weeks, after suffering mild-to-severe memory loss, trance-like stares, and occasionally a low-grade headache. Members of the Sylvandale Bridge Club were some of the first to go. They played once a week, rain-or-shine, and among them the symptoms of the oxygen depletion were hardly distinguishable from their regular behavior.

"Who dealt?" Ana Ruth asked, shaking herself out of a mild reverie.
"You did," Esther Lynn, her partner, assured her with a yawn.

Six minutes and one hot flash later Carole Charlene stopped daydreaming about her fifth grade teacher and focused again on the cards. She reached across the table and shook her partner.

"Sandra Jane! Sandra Jane! A club was lead. It's your play. Sandra Jane!"

Sandra Jane snored peacefully, then ceased breathing altogether.

"The rest are mine anyway," mumbled Ana Ruth, collapsing on the table, her face the domicile of a warm smile.

"I'm sorry. What was the bid?" Carole Charlene laughed and slumped.

"Make me one with everything!" Esther Lynn sang triumphantly as she settled into her best meditation posture and breathed her last,

All over Little Blue similar scenes occurred as the human race, up long past its bedtime, sweetly slipped into cosmic history. Over the seas and mountains an-antiphonal hymn passed back and forth between the forests of the globe:

"We are not a resource, no, no, no.

We are ourselves, yes, yes, yes,"