He used the steps in preference to the lift. He needed more time to think--would he ever find enough time? Undoubtedly, now, Janith's love for him was dead. His desertion of her must have finished the dissolution of their marriage. It had been cowardly--he should have faced her and declared what he was going to do and what she could do. These past weeks, working with the rock hogs, had been invaluable. They had restored something of his self-esteem. The second floor. Pastel bare walls and soft voices. The odors. 208 and opposite, 209. A wheelchair, propelled by a timidly smiling white-haired woman. He nodded automatically. 210. What could he say to her? That he was sorry she was hurt and that he was such a fool? And then back to the super mech hostel and the five other cripples who shared the room? 212. The door ajar. A private room. He was glad of that. The headache was more violent now--there was a bitter taste in his mouth as his super mech entered the room. She was alone, looking tiny and helpless on the high bed. To him, after three years, she was more beautiful than he remembered, even though the pure whiteness of her once-graying hair startled him. "Janith," he said uncertainly. She turned her head, curiosity in her expression, and then understanding came. There was no mistaking the warmth and welcome that came into her eyes. She held out her arms. "Duggy," she commanded, "come here." And he knew then, without ever being told, that his revolt and flight had all been part of the therapy, and Janith had known all the time where he had been.... Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ September 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.