They let him take his time, fumbling eagerly but clumsily with his camera. And from his enthusiasm they drew many thoughts. He was a little like the leader of those people from interstellar space, who had built themselves a lovely, forbidden paradise in the small--a paradise that native Earth men would never colonize, though there might soon be found many uses even for the ionic science that had made it possible. Exploration of places that full-size men could never reach. A miniature secret service, perhaps. The golden statue on the crest of the Pantheon, down there. Old Rod belonged to that same class--an idealist. Nor could Perry Wilcox scoff now, for he was one himself. In the silence, Rod Murgatroyd's camera mechanism worked. In the background, above the scarred slope, smoke arose silently from the vent of a subterranean factory. This was old Rod's moment of triumph. So Perry and Troubles could not tell him that his eyes were gone.