Nick leaned heavily on his shovel to catch his breath. How long had he been at this? Several hours at least, he thought.

Beneath his feet and around him to his waist, raw, heavy soil oozed a grey liquid and already he was ankle-deep in the brackish water. He'd have to finish quickly or his newly-created hole would fill completely.

What was a hole? Was he really making anything at all or creating the absence of something? He wasn't so much digging a hole, as he was relocating matter. Nothing was being created or destroyed. Only hours ago, this spot contained dirt. Then it contained air. In time, it would contain water. And when he was done, it would again contain dirt... and something else.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and let his thoughts drift. Not long now, he thought, and swayed gently as a breeze shushed through the overhanging trees, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass. Eyes shut, he became aware of the sounds of the world beyond his hole. Yes, there was hush of trees in the wind. And a car passing on the empty street. A dog barked two yards away, and even farther in the distance, a lawnmower droned.

This, he thought, is what the world sounds like inside a hole in my lawn, and nobody on the face of the earth has ever listened to the world from a hole in my lawn before. He breathed a deep, satisfied sigh.

Presently, footsteps approached on the road, and Nick opened his eyes. Above him stood a man in ragged clothes, watching him carefully. His look was intense, nervous, and he appeared to have a damp spot in an embarassing spot on his faded jeans.

"Asimov," the man intoned, then turned to continue up the hill, singing something about shrimp cocktail.

Nick blinked, then shrugged it off. Back to work, he pulled on the canvas sack at the edge and it slid wetly to his feet. Just relocating matter.