“I must go now, Granthr. You are tired. Mother says I am not to tire you.” “Come again tomorrow. And Ronnie!” His bony arm reached out for the boy’s gay blue tunic. “After I am gone and you are old enough to withdraw my tapes from the memorium library and contact them--” He paused, his frail old fingers tightening on the fabric. “Do not think too harshly of me and of your other granthrs and gramrs. When we were young we could not know that after death all our thoughts would be laid bare. Our parents and our nations did not know, and we were fed untruths that colored all our lives.” The little boy’s thin face was puzzled. “Run along,” Norall said softly. “Some day you will understand.” He sent the wheelchair buzzing over toward the memorium tapes and the soft gray helmet for his head even as the door closed behind the boy. Transcriber’s Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, March 1956 (Vol. 5, No. 2.). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Obvious errors in punctuation have been silently corrected in this version.