Little more than thirty seconds raced by when he knew he had won. He saw the far notch growing near. He came to it in a last booming rush, and hurled his whole weight against the boom to face the runners into the notch. Under the low-dropping sun, he and his sled shot into open country beyond the range. His right arm felt dead from shoulder to fingertip. His head roared and drummed with the racing of his blood. His face had tired spots in it, where muscles he had never used before had locked into an agonized grimace. On he sped, straight west, gasping and gurgling and mumbling in crazy triumph. An hour, an anticlimactic hour wherein the sled almost steered itself over the smoothest of plain, and up ahead he spied the black outline of Base Camp. It was a sprawling, low structure, prefabricated metal and plastic and insulation, black outside to gather what heat might come from outer space. It held aloof on the dull frozen plain from the irregular stain where the expedition ship had braked off with one set of rockets and had soared away with another set. Larger, more familiar, grew Base Camp with each second of approach. Shakily Wofforth cut his engine, slowed from high speed to medium, to a hundred miles an hour, to sixty, to fifty. He made a final circle around Base Camp, and let it coast in with the engine off, to within twenty yards of the main lock panel. He got up, on legs that shook inside his boots. He felt his heart still racing, his head still ringing. He sighed once, and walked close, his gauntlet fumbling at the release button on the lock panel. But the button did not respond. "Jammed," he said. "No--locked." He couldn't get in. He had reached Base Camp, but he could not get in. They hadn't counted on his return. They'd gone off and left Base Camp locked up. He sagged against the lock panel, and cursed once, with an utter and furious resignation. He felt himself slipping. He was going to faint. His legs would not hold him up. He was slipping forward--seemed to be sinking into the massive and unyielding outer surface of Base Camp. It was a dream. Or it was death. He did not lose all hold on his awareness. He had a sense of lying at full length, and blinding light flashes that made his eyelids jump. And a tug somewhere, as though his helmet was coming off. He would have put out a hand to see, but his left arm was broken, and his right arm limp from weariness. "You're back," said a voice he knew, a voice strained with wonder. "You managed. I knew you would." "Now," said Wofforth, "I know it's a dream. We dream after we die." A hand was cupped behind his neck, lifting him to a sitting position. He felt warm fluid at his lips. "It's no dream," said the voice beseechingly. "Look at me." "I don't dare. The dream will go away." But he opened his eyes and looked at her hair like Plutonian night, her eyes like bright stars. "Lya," he said. "I'm going to call you Lya." "Please call me Lya."