"Another thing," Bruce Whiting went on. "I'm expecting a half-trac out here tomorrow with some supplies. If you and your family wanted to, there's no reason why we couldn't all ride back with him.... Maybe we could get this thing straightened out then and still be friends." Claude flicked a look toward the far-off hills that were haloed by the last rays of a strange sun. Within moments it would be dark. And a few yards away a woman threw another log on the fire and the pungent aroma of boiling coffee drifted across his nostrils. "I'm hungry," Billy repeated. Claude held out his hand. "I'm sorry," he said. "As you say: this isn't our fault. We're just caught in the middle." * * * * * They ate picnic-style, off plastic dishes, while Bruce Whiting kept up a continuous stream of conversation, aided from time to time by his comely wife. The Whiting's story was a familiar one. He'd been with an advertising agency when the colonization urge had struck him.... That was ten years ago.... He'd talked it over with his wife, and together they'd weighed the chances of surviving the rigid tests that eliminated 97% of the applicants. The story had a pattern you could play by ear. Just another man, and another woman, and another boy now in his teens, who'd grown tired of the struggle for survival in a world that begrudged a man the space occupied by his own body. And when the meal was over, Joan helped Alice Whiting with the dishes, while the men sat around the fire and smoked. It was dark out now--a strange kind of darkness, split only by billions of incredibly bright stars and the nearby glow of the crackling wood fire. Bruce Whiting's cordiality was contagious too. Claude found himself talking now; describing his wants, his ideas, and his ideals. And when the women returned to the circle, the conversation turned to other subjects. They discussed clothes, their children, and the future of the planet. Only one subject was carefully avoided. And that was the one that was foremost in the minds of all of them. They were still talking when the fire had settled into weary heaps of smouldering embers. Then the two families excused themselves and retired to the canvas lean-to's wondering what the next day would hold in store for them. * * * * * The blue sun of Centauri was almost at zenith the next day, when the half-trac arrived with the supplies. The driver--an amiable man--listened patiently while Bruce and Claude related the mixup, and as had been expected, agreed to transport them back to the base. The two families rode together in the open back of the vehicle as it jounced over the mildly sloping terrain. And yet the ride was not unpleasant. The immensity of the planet was breathtaking. It was exactly as the colorcasts had pictured it--only better, incredibly better. No TV travelogue could adequately describe the tang of the air, or the scent of the sweet-smelling grass.