The sun rose. He was immensely tired, full of thorns and brambles of weakness, his heart plunging and aching, his fingers fumbling the wheel, but the thing that pleased him most was the thought of one last phone call: Hello, young Barton, this is old Barton. I’m leaving for Earth today! Rescued! He chuckled weakly. He drove into the shadowy limits of New Schenectady at sundown. Stepping from his car he stood staring at the rocket tarmac, rubbing his reddened eyes. The rocket field was empty. No one ran to meet him. No one shook his hand, shouted, or laughed. He felt his heart roar into pain. He knew blackness and a sensation of falling through the open sky. He stumbled toward an office. Inside, six phones sat in a neat row. He waited, gasping. Finally: Brrrrinnnng. He lifted the heavy receiver. A voice said, “I was wondering if you’d get there alive.” The old man did not speak but stood with the phone in his hands. The voice continued, “An elaborate joke. Captain Rockwell reporting for duty, sir. Your orders, sir?” “You,” groaned the old man. “How’s your heart, old man?” “No!” “Hoped the trip would kill you. Had to eliminate you some way, so I could live, if you call a transcription living.” “I’m going out now,” replied the old man, “and blow it all up. I don’t care. I’ll blow up everything until you’re all dead!” “You haven’t the strength. Why do you think I had you travel so far, so fast? This is your last trip!” The old man felt his heart falter. He would never make the other towns. The war was lost. He slid into a chair and made low sobbing, mournful noises from his loose mouth. He glared at the five other, silent phones. As if at a signal, they burst into silver chorus! A nest of ugly birds screaming! Automatic receivers popped up. The office whirled. “Barton, Barton, Barton!!” He throttled the phone in his hands, the voice, the youth, the time of long ago. He mashed, choked it and still it laughed at him. He throttled it. He beat it. He kicked at it. He hated it with hands and mouth and blind, raging eye. He furled the hot wire like serpentine in his fingers, ripped it into red bits which fell about his stumbling feet. He destroyed three other phones. There was a sudden silence. And as if his body now discovered a thing which it had long kept secret, it seemed to decay upon his tired bones. The flesh of his eyelids fell away like flower petals. His mouth became a withered rose. The lobes of his ears melting wax. He pushed his chest with his hands and fell face down. He lay still. His breathing stopped. His heart stopped. After a long spell, the remaining two phones rang. Twice. Three times. A relay snapped somewhere. The two phone voices were connected, one to the other. “Hello, Barton?” “Yes, Barton?” “Aged twenty-four.” “I’m twenty-six. We’re both young. What’s happened?” “I don’t know. Listen.” The silent room. The old man did not stir on the floor. The wind blew in the broken window. The air was cool.