Two hours later they stopped to rest. They stopped on a patch of rich, green turf in the shadow of a broad-leaf tree. The spaceport, flanked by its low-slung buildings was still visible, but from seven miles away the buildings looked incredibly tiny. Like miniatures out of a Christmas kit. But the thing that impressed them most was the quiet--a strange sort of quiet, free of the whir of copter blades, land-car horns, and other nerve-shattering noises. Instead, there was only the rustle of a mild breeze through the tree branches, and the sound of their own breathing. Marshall lay on his back, his fingers laced behind his neck. "I feel rested, Joan," he said. "We've just walked seven miles, but I feel rested." "I know, Claude. I feel the same way. It must be the air. The air feels different." "Wouldn't it be nice if it'd always stay this way. Fresh and unspoiled, I mean. I know it won't, but wouldn't it be nice if it did." "It will, Claude. It will for as long as we live anyhow, and for as long as Billy lives. That's what's important. We're very lucky, Claude." "I can't help thinking of the people back on Earth. I feel sorry for them." "They could do what we did. They could take the tests." "I know. But even if they did, what would they have? Who'd want to homestead the _other_ side of this planet? Who'd want to live out there anyway?" "I would, Pop," Billy said. "No you wouldn't, Son. Don't you remember those black mountains we saw from the ship when we came in?" "Sure, Pop." "Well that's what the other side of the planet is like. Only you couldn't tell what it was really like because we were too high. You wouldn't like it if you had to live there. It's cold, and rocky, and there's only six hours of daylight out of every twenty-six." "I wouldn't like it then," the boy said. "I don't like the dark." Claude got up and looked at his wife. "Shall we move along," he said. They pushed ahead. Eagerly, yet slowly enough to absorb the world's endless beauty; stopping at the crest of each new hill; kneeling at the shores of crystal lakes to quench their thirst; and scooping up handfuls of rich, black soil in spots where the turf had become dislodged. The sun of Centauri was almost at zenith when they approached the crest of the ridge that bounded the Marshall homestead. Claude's pace, which had been quickening steadily for the final mile, burst into a jagged trot for the final hundred uphill yards. At the top of the hill he stopped, staring into the lush, green valley, ignoring his family who'd been unable to keep pace with his eagerness. The homestead was all that the color photos had advertised--and more. It was all there. The flat, rich turf, the stream running through the center of the valley, and the grove of trees under which he'd build the prefab house.