Produced by Greg Weeks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction November 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. _Illustrated by Paul Orban_ BY PATRICK WILKINS FOR EVERY MAN A REASON _To love your wife is good; to love your State is good, too. But if it comes to a question of survival, you have to love one better than the other. Also, better than yourself. It was simple for the enemy; they knew which one Aron was dedicated to...._ The thunder of the jets died away, the sound drifting wistfully off into the hills. The leaves that swirled in the air returned to the ground slowly, reluctantly. The rocket had gone. Aron Myers realized that he was looking at nothing. He noticed that his face was frozen into a meaningless smile. He let the smile slowly dissolve as he turned to look at his wife. She was a small woman, and he realized for the first time how fragile she was. Her piquant face, framed by long brown, flowing hair, was an attractive jewel when set on the plush cushion of civilization. Now her face, set in god-forsaken wilderness, metamorphosed into the frightened mask of a small animal. They were alone. Two human beings alone on this wild, lonely planet. Aron's mind suddenly snapped from that frame of reference--his subjective view of their position--to the scale of galaxies. It was a big planet to them, but it was a marble in the galaxy that man had discovered and claimed, and was now fighting with himself to retain. This aggregate of millions of pebbles was wracked with the violence of war, where marbles were more expendable than the microbes that dwelt on them. The two walked hand in hand away from the meadow where the ship had been. The feeble wind snuffled at the scraps of paper and trash, the relics of man's passing. They walked up the hill to their station, the reason for their being on this wayside planet. [Illustration] Aron thought about the scenery around them. The compact, utilitarian building that was the station did not seem out of place against the bleak landscape. The landscape did not clash or conform to its location--it just didn't give a damn whether there was a building there or not. Aron and Martha, his wife, took their time. They had an abundance of that elusive quantity known as time at this lonely outpost. The trail up to the station was rough, with rocks and weeds tearing at them. Aron resolved that that would be one of his first projects, to put in a good path to the meadow where the rocket would come for them--five years from now. The sunset did nothing to enhance the countryside. There was not enough dust in the air to create any striking colors. As the shadows began to lap at the hill, they hurried the last few steps to the building. * * * * *