"Maybe," George said, "if you invented something bigger, better, more efficient." "You think I haf not tried?" George stood thinking a long moment. He said, "Vernher, is there no way out?" "Sure," Vernher laughed. "If we go back to savage pre-civilization." "All right," George said. "I'll go tell Rosy. Watch the control panel a moment, will you? Especially the Eastern Section." "What's the matter with them?" "They seem to be getting restless lately." "Nonsense! My snookers haf no emotions." "Just seems that way sometimes," George said, going out. Their job could even make stones feel something, he thought. He ran down to Rosy in the kitchen. She had consented to having servants only because of her social position, but she still insisted on personally running the kitchen her own way. George pulled her into the hallway and put his arms around her and kissed her. "What on earth?" she said. "You must be very brave, darling." He fixed her with his eyes. "Rosy, this is _it_." "It?" "E-Day." E for Escape. "We can't talk now," he said. "Vernher is at the controls." "Can I change?" "No time. Are the suitcases packed?" "They're in the garage, behind the beer barrels." "Go get Timmy," George said. "I'll drive the station wagon round to the back door." At the gate to the grounds they stopped and took a last look at the chateau. They could see Vernher standing in the control window. He seemed to be enjoying the spectacle in the town below. Rosy gripped George's arm. "Look!" A snooker had strayed off its orbit and was hissing in toward the chateau. It came fast over the grounds, heading straight for the control window. Vernher never saw it coming. Probably he did not even hear the glass crashing as the sharp slivers shot into the room. * * * * * By the end of May George was still chopping a small clearing in the Montana woods. George and Charlie's old campsite. It was harder work than he'd expected. But it was a good site and the tent would be replaced by a heavy log cabin before winter set in. Sometimes they'd climb one of the peaks on the Flathead Range and sit gazing at Hungry Horse Reservoir in the distance. The trees were stubborn here, blunting the ax. But they'd make it all right. George sat down to rest. Rosy waved to him from the potato patch. A strand of smoke rose peacefully from the stone oven. He waved back and grinned. Timmy worked his way up bravely to where George sat. He'd gotten used to his bark shoes and had quite forgotten that he had ever worn any other kind. "Can I help you, Daddy?" Education too, George thought. The _real_ kind. "No, thanks, son," he said. "You'd better help your mother plant the potatoes."