I woke up knowing exactly how to undo the damage I had
wrought in my dream. I put on the dust-suit, and ran up the
stairs. Around and around and around to the top, and stared
out, breathless, at the dark, thirsty landscape. I closed my
eyes, to catch one last glimpse of the green and gold I had
seen in my sleep. I opened them again, and the lush
vegetation faded to silent grey hills. But there! The ridge,
where the stream ran... and the overhang, where the spring
surfaced. Yes! How could we have missed it? Our station had
been assigned the dryest, most desolate stretch of this
planet. Scientists without hope find nothing of value. But
that was all water under the bridge, if you don't mind my
pun. Soon, zone 332 would have flowers. I woke the others,
and within minutes we were smiling and working. We sent a
message to the colony that there was hope.

I did not tell my colleagues the first part of the dream. I
did not tell them of the dustlings, those magnificent,
burrowing creatures of the hills who raise their young deep
under the grey surface. I did not tell them of how water is
poison to the dustlings, of how a drop of our liquid of life
would kill them all. I did not tell them that the dustlings
talked to me, showed me where and why they blocked the
spring, and asked me to spare them. In my dream, I spared
them, and the last colony of homo sapiens died.

My son was born last night. He had no eyes, and six digging
claws instead of hands. He burrowed his way out of his
screaming mother, and bit off half of my left leg. I poured
my glass of water on him, and he quickly choked to death.
Sweet, gentle Rebecca, our last female, died this morning.