"Speaking of how footprints last around here," Copeland remarked for the sake of conversation, "I understand you've got to be careful--stick to high ridges, and to parts of the flat _maria_ where there's no old volcanic ash or dust of thermal erosion." "Guys who do that are misers and old women, kid," Brinker scoffed. "Hell--it sure ain't because they're modest that they're so cautious! Me--I do things right." He lifted a foot from the dust beside the path, revealing the mark of the specially etched steel sole of his spaceboot. A name was stamped across the print: BRINKER. "I'm proud of where I've been and where I'm going--like a true explorer," the big man said. "Get some soles like mine made for yourself, fella, and come along with me." Copeland was intrigued. "Let me think about it a little." * * * * * During the next few hours he heard quite a lot. A big, blonde nurse--one of the two women in the sealed warrens of Tycho Station, said: "Young man, I _love_ Jess Brinker. But keep away from him, or you'll wind up in the prison pits, or worse." And Copeland heard about Tom Brinker, Jess' dad--the kind of swindler always found in rough new territory, anywhere. He had promoted the idea of a real city on Lunar. Yeah--one with trees and flowers. What sentimental bait that was for home-starved, desolation-sick wanderers! No wonder somebody had murdered him recently. By common opinion, twenty-odd years was the only difference between Jess and his father. "Stay clear," was the warning; the name of Brinker was mud and poison. Arne Copeland was a cagey youngster; nobody influenced him when he made up his mind. He was no cow-eyed hero-worshipper; yet, on his own, he kind of liked the large, battered, egotist. Copeland knew that he was an egotist himself. He also knew that merely to be on the sketchily-explored Moon was to take chances. So he said "Okay," to Brinker, and got some metal boot-soles made, with his name etched into them in reverse, as in a rubber stamp. * * * * * Under packs that no coolie could ever have lifted against Earth gravity, they left Tycho Station and moved toward the fringe of that lunar hemisphere which is never seen from Terra--though it is no different from the visible half in general character. Wherever their feet found a medium that would take an impression, they left their trademark behind them. Copeland could brush a name out with a glove; otherwise those names were about as permanent as if carved from granite, for there was no wind to blow the dust, and no rain to wash it away. Passing tractor-caravans would never blot out all of the footprints. Not in ages of time. "At least we got us a monument, Jess," Copeland said once, feeling somewhat thrilled. "That's what guys out exploring and prospecting need. A legend. A reputation."