"The voice kept saying that. Yet there was no one in the flying thing, no man to speak these words to you." "Of course! Of course! A voice--the wireless--speaking through three thousand miles of space. And through the Curtain." "Is this not strange, O'Hara?" But O'Hara seized his arm. "The voice! The craft! And you took the fuel there? Then I--I can fly again!" It was that overwhelming yearning to be taking off again that sent him rushing to the cavern. "Nedra!" And when she turned. "I'm going to fly again." She wiped the baby's mouth. She rubbed her hands together slowly, with sand between them, to rid them of the fat of a wild fowl she was roasting. She placed a log upon the smoldering fire. "Where will you fly?" she asked. "Does it matter, Nedra?" "Yes." "All right, I shall go straight up as long as the motors will push me, and then I shall circle around as a condor might do it, and I'll feel like a condor, too, a king of the skies--" "I am going with you." That sobered him up. And he took her hands: "There is a chance, always a chance, that the flying thing will fall. And the baby, Nedra, your child--our child?" "The baby is the clan's. But I, O'Hara, am yours." "But Nedra, if I--well, if I don't come back to these mountains--?" "Ah." She smiled. "I knew!" And clenched the ceremonial warclub and advanced. It was the Elder who managed things. At dawn they departed, the men and the younger women of the clan going swiftly upward through the heavy snowdrifts and O'Hara with Nedra trotting grimly among them until at last they reached that upland meadow where he had first set his craft down on the continent. The craft--and the jars of fuel--waited there. Nedra got into the cockpit. Then O'Hara directed the task of clearing a runway through the snow. When they had finished, O'Hara climbed in, touched his instruments very carefully, then touched them in earnest and felt the living throb of motors. They coughed and then died. "Once more," he whispered to himself. This time they roared. The Elder flung himself face down into the snow. The younger clansmen scattered. O'Hara shook his fist at them. The craft shot forward. Before it reached the wall of trees it knifed into the sky. For some minutes O'Hara was too busy with the glory of his wings, driving higher, soaring, to observe that Nedra had now shut her eyes. The ticking of his scintillometer broke in upon his absorption finally, its milliroentgen count a steady .285. Then he heard a more staccato clicking, and it was Nedra. "Here, your teeth are chipping. Take this jacket, Nedra." He pulled it off. And the metal book that he had taken from the library in Washington dropped onto his knees. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he flicked wide the covers. Upon the single sheet of bright magnesium was this: "December 20, 12:35:01 P.M. Save for these ten seconds, only you can do it."