II

           ItwasnotuntilitwasgettingdarkthateveningthatGregorawokefromhisdeepandcoma-likesleep.Hewouldhavewokensoonafterwardsanywayevenifhehadn’tbeendisturbed,ashehadhadenoughsleepandfeltfullyrested.Buthehadtheimpressionthatsomehurriedstepsandthesoundofthedoorleadingintothefrontroombeingcarefullyshuthadwokenhim.Thelightfromtheelectricstreetlampsshonepalelyhereandthereontotheceilingandtopsofthefurniture,butdownbelow,whereGregorwas,itwasdark.Hepushedhimselfovertothedoor,feelinghiswayclumsilywithhisantennae—ofwhichhewasnowbeginningtolearnthevalue—inordertoseewhathadbeenhappeningthere.Thewholeofhisleftsideseemedlikeone,painfullystretchedscar,andhelimpedbadlyonhistworowsoflegs.Oneofthelegshadbeenbadlyinjuredintheeventsofthatmorning—itwasnearlyamiraclethatonlyoneofthemhadbeen—anddraggedalonglifelessly.

           Itwasonlywhenhehadreachedthedoorthatherealisedwhatitactuallywasthathaddrawnhimovertoit;itwasthesmellofsomethingtoeat.Bythedoortherewasadishfilledwithsweetenedmilkwithlittlepiecesofwhitebreadfloatinginit.Hewassopleasedhealmostlaughed,ashewasevenhungrierthanhehadbeenthatmorning,andimmediatelydippedhisheadintothemilk,nearlycoveringhiseyeswithit.