The Major shouted, “_It’s going, Peter—pull back!_” and I threw the tractor into reverse, jerked the controls as the tractor rumbled off the shelf. The cable snapped, coiled up in front like a broken clockspring. The whole surface under me was shaking wildly now; ash rose in huge gray clouds. Then, with a roar, the whole shelf lurched and slid sideways. It teetered on the edge for seconds before it crashed into the crevasse, tearing the side wall down with it in a mammoth slide. I jerked the tractor to a halt as the dust and flame billowed up. They were gone—all three of them, McIvers and the Major and Jack Stone—buried under a thousand tons of rock and zinc and molten lead. There wasn’t any danger of anybody ever finding their bones. * * * * * Peter Claney leaned back, finishing his drink, rubbing his scarred face as he looked across at Baron. Slowly, Baron’s grip relaxed on the chair arm. “_You_ got back,” he said. Claney nodded. “I got back, sure. I had the tractor and the sledges. I had seven days to drive back under that yellow Sun. I had plenty of time to think.” “You took the wrong man along,” Baron said. “That was your mistake. Without him you would have made it.” “Never.” Claney shook his head. “That’s what I was thinking the first day or so—that it was _McIvers’_ fault, that _he_ was to blame. But that isn’t true. He was wild, reckless and had lots of nerve.” “But his judgment was bad!” “It couldn’t have been sounder. We had to keep to our schedule even if it killed us, because it would positively kill us if we didn’t.” “But a man like that—” “A man like McIvers was necessary. Can’t you see that? It was the Sun that beat us, that surface. Perhaps we were licked the very day we started.” Claney leaned across the table, his eyes pleading. “We didn’t realize that, but it was _true_. There are places that men can’t go, conditions men can’t tolerate. The others had to die to learn that. I was lucky, I came back. But I’m trying to tell you what I found out—that _nobody_ will ever make a Brightside Crossing.” “We will,” said Baron. “It won’t be a picnic, but we’ll make it.” “But suppose you do,” said Claney, suddenly. “Suppose I’m all wrong, suppose you _do_ make it. Then what? _What comes next?_” “The Sun,” said Baron. Claney nodded slowly. “Yes. That would be it, wouldn’t it?” He laughed. “Good-by, Baron. Jolly talk and all that. Thanks for listening.” Baron caught his wrist as he started to rise. “Just one question more, Claney. Why did you come here?” “To try to talk you out of killing yourself,” said Claney. “You’re a liar,” said Baron. Claney stared down at him for a long moment. Then he crumpled in the chair. There was defeat in his pale blue eyes and something else. “Well?” Peter Claney spread his hands, a helpless gesture. “When do you leave, Baron? I want you to take me along.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------