Fans, I was thinking frozenly--sixteen or eighteen, maybe, with pimples and dandruff and black fingernails, and that wonderful, terrible eagerness boiling up inside them ... slaving away at backyard rocketry experiments, wiring up crazy gadgets that never worked, printing bad fiction and worse poetry in mimeographed magazines.... How could I have forgotten? "I wasn't going to tell anybody," he said. "No matter what happened. If they'd _looked_ at me, just once, they would have seen. But as long as you're worrying so much about it--" He blinked, and said humbly, "It scares me. What do you think I ought to do?" My fingers twitched. I said, "Well, this will take some thinking about, Harry. Uh, can I--" He backed off absent-mindedly as I stepped toward him. "I've been thinking about it," he said. "As a matter of fact, I haven't been to bed since yesterday morning. I worked on it straight through from four o'clock yesterday. Twenty hours. I took caffeine tablets. But go ahead, tell me. What would you do if you--" he said it apologetically--"were me?" I swallowed. "I'd go at it slowly," I said. "You can make a lot of mistakes by--" He interrupted me, with a sudden fiendish glint in his eye. "The man that has this is pretty important, don't you think?" And he grinned. "How would you like to see my face on all the stamps?" I shuddered in spite of myself. "Well--" "I wouldn't _bother_," he said. "I've got something better to do first--" "Harry," I said, leaning, "if I've said anything...." "You didn't say anything." He gave me such a look as I hope I never get from a human again. "Big shot!" I grabbed for him, but he was too quick. He leaped back, jamming the gadget into his pocket, fumbling at the spectacles with his other hand. I saw his feet lift clear of the pavement. He was hanging there like a mirage, drifting backward and upward just a little faster than I could run. His voice came down, thin and clear: "I'll send you a postcard from...." I lost the last part; anyhow, it couldn't have been what it sounded like. * * * * * Just over a month later came Palomar's reports of unaccountable lights observed on the dark limb of Mars. Every science fiction reader in the world, I suppose, had the same thought--of a wanderer's footprints fresh in the ancient dust, his handprints on controls not shaped for hands, the old wild light wakened. But only a few of us pictured hornrims gleaming there in the Martian night.... I drove over to Milford and had a look through Ham Jibless' homemade telescope. I couldn't see the lights, of course, but I could see that damned infuriating planet, shining away ruddy there across 36,000,000 miles of space, with its eternal _Yah, yah, you can't catch me!_ * * * * * Medusa meetings have been badly attended since then, I'm told; for some reason, it gives the members the green heaves to look at each other.