"Perhaps if Mr. Callendar would have dinner with us and tell us a little more, we'd be better able to help." "Not a bad idea, Carol. We should know a little more." Carol selected a dinner and pressed the button that would start its preparation. Her father said casually, "You are a stranger to Ganymede, aren't you, Mr. Callendar?" "I'm not sure of that," said the man. Her father's eyebrows went up. Carol said, "But you do come from one of Jupiter's moons?" "I can't remember which one. There are a lot of things that my memory's hazy about. I can't even recall the name of the company I worked for as an engineer." "That may not be so strange. I find difficulty remembering the school where I taught on Earth. P.S. 654, wasn't it, Dad?" "P.S. 634," Mr. Marsh corrected briefly. "You see?" she said. "Do you remember your wife's name? And the names of your children?" "I wouldn't forget _them_," he said. "My wife's name was Mona." He stared at the wall for a moment, his face without expression. "I can still see the way she looked when I left to undergo treatment. Paul was--let's see, he must be about nine, maybe ten, by this time. And Wilma must be six or seven. I remember how scared she was that time she found a harmless little phytopod. She thought it was going to bite her." "Phytopod?" said Carol. "We don't have them around here. What do they look like?" "They're small and furry, and have two feet that look like roots. When they stand still you're likely to mistake them for plants." "You _do_ recall some things," said Carol. "The little things that don't tell me where to look. I remember the time we went on a picnic--I don't recall how many moons there were in the sky--and the ground began to shake. It didn't do any damage, but Wilma was terrified. Paul took it in his stride, though." "There aren't any earthquakes on Ganymede," said her father. "If your memory of that incident is correct, you're looking in the wrong place." "I suppose so," he said. "But what's the right place?" "Perhaps if you thought of a few more incidents, we might figure it out. It's the little things you don't forget that can be most helpful." * * * * * What nonsense, thought Carol, although she kept the thought to herself. The little things can be most _harmful_. They keep the pain, and the memory of pain, alive and vivid. She remembered little things about John all too well--the careless way he wore his clothes, and the way he combed his hair, the cigarettes he smoked, and the foods he liked to eat. And the stupid way she had let herself fall in love with him. She hadn't even had the excuse of its happening suddenly, as it had happened now. She had begun to love John as she had come to know him, disregarding all the evidence of his selfishness, of his genuine inability to care for any one else than John Burr.