"Perhaps it does not matter at all," Joel said, and he was surprised at the gentleness in his voice. He had not felt it that way in his throat for a long time. Not for a terribly long time. "Now, if you'll let me help you with that harness, we'll free your _kaelli_, and see what can be done about getting you on toward your destination!" Joel's big fingers started fumbling with the thick leather thongs of the _kaelli's_ rig. The harness felt strange and confusing to hands disciplined to the limiting exactnesses of servocircuits and pressure-control studs, and the complexity of their co-ordination was thrown into confusion by sheer simplicity. The girl laughed as she watched his efforts, then guided his hands with her own, and Joel felt a strange warmth mounting in his neck. And when the _kaelli_ was at last freed, he said, "Now then, where can I take you? I owe you something more than just the replacement of your _dhennah_. I shall drive slowly so that the _kaelli_ can follow, and you can see for yourself what it is like to ride in one of our machines!" "But--they go like the wind!" "Indeed they do!" Joel laughed, unaccountably pleased with her excitement. "Yes, ma'm, just like the wind!" Quite unexpectedly, she reached for his hand, and Joel clasped hers with a quickness he had not intended. But then he was leading her to the jeep, helping her into it. He started the powerful turbine engine, chuckled aloud at her quick gasp, then joined in her laughter. "Just like the wind!" he cried and they were off. The day was clear and bright and to Joel the air itself seemed to come alive with a heady excitement. This was something, it told him. This was not to hate. This was not to drink in bitterness. This was _not_ to be alone. * * * * * Captain Nicholas Joel paced the fore-waist bridge. There was a full, untouched flagon on the mahogany desk, and the bottle of Martian Colony Bond stood, tightly corked, beside it. He sat down, hating the feel of the chair of command beneath his big body. What he was thinking was wrong, of course. But no man could be two men; a man could not split himself down the middle and say: this is your life _here_, this is your life _there_, for it is unthinkable that a man be prisoner of one life only--No, a man could not do that; a man had only one life. Wrong, was it? And who, any more a man than himself, could dare to be judge? He would call Carruthers; he would explain, and Carruthers would inform the rest. As for Command-- A buzzer roared on the desk in front of him. It was the dispatch unit communicator--it would be Southard. A huge forefinger hit the toggle almost hard enough to wrench it from its socket. "Command!" Joel grated into the sensitive pick-up. "Proceed with your message." He reached for the flagon, drained it, filled it again.