"Certainly," the agent interjected, "but about Max Prochaska." "Yes, of course." Mrs. Bingham bit her lip reflectively. "My husband always said Max would go places. I wish he could have lived to see it." For just a moment her eyes brimmed wetly, then she blew her nose, wiping them in the process. The agent waited until she had composed herself. "Little Max--I always think of him as Little Max," she explained--"was smart and pleasant, real well liked at school. And he _always_ attended church." She stressed the word always. "Just think, now they say he's on the moon." Her eyes fixed the agent with interest "You'd think he'd get dizzy." * * * * * The agent almost enjoyed tracing Max Prochaska's history, it was a neat, wrapped-up job, one that moved through a regular sequence. Teacher ... minister ... family doctor ... druggist ... scoutmaster ... athletic director--all the ties a small-town boy makes and retains. Everything was clear-cut, compact. Records, deeds, acquaintances--all in one handy package. The memory of a man who grew up in a small town persisted, borne in the minds of people whose worlds were small. The Vista paper had obligingly carried Prochaska's biography, right on the front page, under the headline: VISTAN LANDS ON MOON. The leading local drugstore was featuring a Prochaska sundae and the Mayor of the town had proclaimed MAX PROCHASKA week. Clearly, Vista was proud of its native son, but not nearly as proud as the elderly couple who still tended a chicken ranch on the outskirts of town. "Max is a good boy," Mrs. Prochaska said simply. Her husband beamed agreement. On the surface, Prochaska's record seemed clean--a good student, well-liked, the usual array of girls, and nothing much in the way of peccadillos you could hang a hat on. The agent's last view of the town was a sign at the city limits: VISTA--THE HOME OF MAX PROCHASKA. * * * * * Drone Baker looked a complete loss. It had smashed tail down onto the ash covered plain about four miles to the southeast of the Aztec, off the eastern lip of the curved crescent Prochaska had dubbed "Backbone Ridge." Crag calculated that the positions of Bandit, the drone and their own rocket roughly formed an equilateral triangle on the floor of the crater. The lower section of the rocket was crushed, its hull split lengthwise. Crag and Larkwell studied the scene from a small knoll. The drone lay in a comparatively level area about thirty feet from the edge of a deep fissure, careened at a steep angle from the vertical. Only its tail imbedded into the ground kept it from toppling.