There it was. There was a sudden coldness inside him now that the fact had crystallized, had become real. Here was no fantasy; no wild surmise. They left him in silence while he thought, their psibeam turned away, now. Harrison and Janes. Lamson, and Fowler. Had to stop them. Stop them, and then somehow, get home. He ached for home. He thought about Ferris, who had given his life for this thing. No, Ferris would not be going home. Ferris was dead. He signalled for the psibeam to be turned toward him again. "You'd have to know their positions out there to make contact, wouldn't you?" They did not answer. He worked to get the words formed, and there was a fleeting thought of a green, lush planet far away, its wide streets and rolling fields bathed in warm sunlight. "I can figure 'em," he said. "I know blast-off schedules, speeds. I know the works! _Those_ things they had in the books. Then you guys can do the rest with--that thing. Right?" They answered him, then. "Thank you," they said. And that was all. * * * * * "Answer me!" the General barked again. "You, Janes! Lamson! Fowler--Harrison! For the last time, what happened out there?" The four stood silently before the nervous figure of their commander, and it was Fowler who finally spoke. "Plan III, sir, as we've already said. Condition Untenable--Return...." "That is all you can say?" "That is--all, sir." The General turned away. There was frustration and anger in his face, and it hid the fear beneath it like a mask. Plan III. It would be Plan III for a long time yet. It was the thing he saw in the faces of the four men that told him that. There had been too many giant steps, too fast. He had seen this thing in the faces of men before, but never so nakedly. One day, perhaps, men could think of Plan I again. One day, but not now. He turned back to the four, and looked once more into their faces. Plan III. Condition Untenable. "Dismissed!" the General said.