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thronged with stars. Their constellations weren’t much changed by a score of light-years’ remove. And though it was a trifle more tilted, Rustum’s axis did not point far from Earth’s. He could know the Bears, the Dragon —and near Bootes, a dim spark which was Sol—
    More than forty years away by spaceship, he thought—human cargo cold-sleeping like the cells of their animals and plants and foster children, for four decades till they arrived and were wakened back to life. But did the spaceships still fare? It had been a nearly last-gasp effort which assembled the fleet that carried the pioneers here: an effort by which the government, with their own consent, rid itself of Constitutionalist troublemakers who kept muttering about foolishnesses like freedom. Had any of those vessels ever gone anywhere else again? Radio had not had time to bring an answer to questions beamed at Earth. Nor would man on Rustum be prepared to build ships which could leave it for a much longer time to come. Quite possibly never … O’Malley shivered and hastened to his car.
     

    Roxana was a large continent, and this trip was from its middle to the southern edge. Time dragged for Danny. They were flying high, for the most part very little below the normal cloud deck. Hence transient nimbuses, further down, often cut them off from sight of land. But then they would pass over the patch of weather and come back into clear vision—as clear as vision ever got, here.
    O’Malley made several attempts at cheerful conversation. Danny tried to respond, but words wouldn’t come. At last talk died altogether. Only the hum of jets filled the cabin, or a hoot of wind and cannonade of thunder, borne by the thick atmosphere across enormous distances.
    O’Malley puffed his pipe, whistled an occasional tune, sat alertly by to take over from the autopilot if there was any trouble. Danny squired in the seat beside him. Why didn’t I at least bring a book? the boy thought, over and over. Then I wouldn’t have to just sit here and stare out at that.
    “Grand, isn’t it?” O’Malley had said once. Danny barely kept from yelling back, “No, it’s horrible, can’t you see how awful it is?”
    Above, it was pearl-gray, except in the east where a blur of light marked the morning sun. Mountains reared beneath: so tall, as they climbed toward the homes of men, that their heads were lost in the skyroof. They tumbled sharply downward, though, in cliffs and crags and canyons, vast misty valleys, gorges where rivers gleamed dagger bright, steeps whose black rock was slashed by waterfalls. Ahead were their foothills, and off to the west began a prairie which sprawled around the curve of the world. A storm raged there, swart bulks of cloud where lightning flared and glared, remorseless rains driven by the great slow winds of the lowlands. Hues were infinite, for vegetation crowded all but the stoniest heights. Yet those shades of blue-green, tawny, russet were as somber in Danny’s eyes as the endless overcast above them; and the wings which passed by in million-membered flocks only drove into him how alien was the life that overswarmed these lands.
    O’Malley’s glance lingered upon him. “What a shame you don’t like it here,” he murmured. “It’s your kind of country, you know. You’re fitted for it in a way I’ll never be.”
    “I don’t, that’s all,” Danny forced out. “Let’s not talk about it. Please, sir.”
    If we talk, I won’t be able to hide the truth from him, I’ll start shaking. I’ll stammer, the sweat that’s already cold in my hands and armpits, already sharp in my nose, it’ll break out so he can see, and he’ll know I’m afraid. Oh, God, how afraid! Maybe I’ll cry. And Father will be ashamed of me.
    Father, who followed me down into yonder horror and plucked me free of death.
    Fear didn’t make sense, Danny told himself. His mind had stated the same thing year after year, whenever a dream or a telepicture or a