Well, the golden sun of Earth would set somewhat sooner than the physicists--or the sociologists--had prognosticated. But all that would be long after he himself had died. It was no concern of his, anyway. He was Emrys Shortmire, born out of Jan Shortmire and no mortal woman; and nothing else on Earth, or in the Universe, mattered. Disdaining the importunate heli-cabs that besieged him with plaintive mechanical offers of transportation, he walked down the street, enjoying the pull of the planet upon the youth and strength of his body, delighting in the clarity of his vision and the keenness of his nostrils. He was so absorbed in his thoughts and so unaccustomed still to Earth's traffic that he did not look where he was going. The groundcar was upon him before he knew it. Of course something like this would happen, he thought bitterly, as darkness descended upon him and he waited for the crushing impact. It was always like that in the old stories, always some drawback to spoil the magic gift. But then it was light again. The car had passed over him and he was unharmed, to the amazement--and disappointment--of the avid crowd that had gathered. "Pedestrians should look where they're going," the voice of the car observed petulantly. "Repairs cost money." Being part human, Emrys was shaken by the experience. His eye caught the brilliant sign of a bar. Here, he thought, would be syrup to soothe his nerves. And he went inside, eager to try the taste of ancient vintages of Earth--unobtainable on the other planets, since fine wines and liquors could not endure the journey through space. * * * * * He sipped a whisky and soda, trying not to feel disappointed at the savor. As he drank, he felt eyes upon him--the bartender's. Yet the long Qesharakan reflecting glass above the bar showed him nothing unusual about his appearance. Did the bartender know who he was? How could he? Then Emrys noticed that the man glanced from him to someone else--a girl sitting at the other end of the bar. As she met Emrys' eye, she smiled at him. Absently, with remote appreciation of her good looks, he smiled back, then returned to the contemplation of his drink. The bartender's expression deepened to amused contempt. Emrys realized what was wrong and he could hardly keep from laughing. So intent had he been on the pursuit of his goal that he had almost lost sight of the goal itself. Deliberately, he turned his head and smiled at the girl. She promptly smiled back. He sat down at her side. Now that he was close, her aquamarine hair showed dark at the roots, and, through the thick golden maquillage, the pores stood out on her nose. Also, she was not so very young. He laughed then, and, when she asked why, bought her a drink. After he had bought her several more, they went to her apartment--a luxurious one in a good section of town. She was not going to be cheap, but, he thought with rising anticipation, he could afford her.