Kellard sat for a long time, still wrapped in a gray weariness, his emotions in a numb trance. He sat listening to the distant, uneasy murmur of the sea, until the sunset light shafting through the trees dazzled his eyes, and then he got up and went back down to the house. He heated food, ate it, and then went out to the porch in front of the house and sat watching the sun sink toward the vast golden sheet of the Pacific. He thought of the little dot close to the sun that he could not see, the little world and the strange, terrible place upon it where Morse and Binetti had died. The telephone rang. Kellard did not stir, and it rang and rang again. Go ahead and ring your head off, he thought. You're not getting me back. I told you. I've had it. The ringing stopped. The sun sank and darkness came with the hosts of wheeling stars, and there was no sound but the vast voices rolling in from sea, as Kellard sat staring and drinking. He finally got up, as the fog started coming in. He moved with gravity, feeling much better. He went in and turned on the lights, and then looked at the faces that stared from the long row of framed photographs. He raised the bottle to them in a gesture of salutation. "You see, Kellards, that your prodigal son--or great-grandson--has come home again from space." He gravely drank, and continued to stand looking along the faded faces. "You were lucky--you know that? Back in your time, there were hopes, and dreams, and man's road would go on forever, from triumph to triumph everlasting. But that road was a blind alley, all the time, even if I'm the only one who knows it." The faces looked back at him, unchanging, but he read reproach in their steady gaze, their lined features. "I'm sorry," said Kellard. "You had your own troubles, I know. I apologize, Kellards. I am very tired and a little drunk, and I am going to bed." * * * * * The next morning he was making coffee when there came a banging of the old-fashioned knocker on the front door. A certain tightness came into Kellard's face. He had expected them to send some one. He had not expected the man who stood at the door. He was not in Survey uniform, although he was the highest brass there was. He was a big, slow-moving man with a heavy face and blue eyes that seemed mild if you didn't know him. "Well," said Kellard. And after a moment, "Come on in." Halfrich came in. He sat down and looked interestedly around at the old room and furniture. "Nice," he murmured. Then he looked at Kellard and said, "All right, let's have it. Why did you quit?" Kellard shrugged. "It was all in my letter of resignation. I'm getting a bit old and tired for Survey, I--" "Bull," said Halfrich. "It was something about that crack-up on Sunside, wasn't it?" Kellard said slowly, "Yes. The deaths of Binetti and Morse, and the after-effects of that shock, made me feel I didn't have it any more."