Alice took her eyes away from the binoculars for the first time since they had sighted the man. "That's silly," she said. "How could he--Vernon, you don't mean he can see us clearly from that far away?" Maxwell waved back at the tiny figure and mouthed silently, "Coming right down. Put some pants on, dammit." He said to Alice, "That's not all he can do. Weren't you listening when I said he's the Beachcomber?" They started down on a long slant as the little figure below moved toward the jungle's edge. "The who?" said Alice, looking through the binoculars again. "Watch where you're going," said Maxwell, more sharply than he had intended. "I'm sorry. Who is he, dear?" "The Beachcomber. The Man From the Future. Haven't you seen a newscast for the last five years?" "I only tune in for the sports and fashions," Alice said abstractedly. Then her mouth formed an O. "My goodness! Is _he_ the one who--" "The same," said Maxwell. "The one who gave us the inertialess drive, the anti-friction field, the math to solve the three-body problem, and about a thousand other things. The guy from three million years in the future. And the loneliest man in all creation, probably. This is the planet he showed up on, five years ago, now that I come to think of it. I guess he spends most of his time here." "But why?" asked Alice. She looked toward the tiny beach, which was now vacant. Her expression, Maxwell thought, said that there were better uses to which he could put himself. Maxwell snorted. "Did you ever read--" He corrected himself; Alice obviously never read. "Did you ever see one of the old films about the South Seas? Ever hear of civilized men 'going native' or becoming beachcombers?" Alice said, "Yes," a trifle uncertainly. "All right, imagine a man stranded in a universe full of savages--pleasant harmless savages, maybe, but people who are three million years away from his culture. What's he going to do?" "Go native," said Alice, "or comb beaches." "That's right," Maxwell told her. "His only two alternatives. And either one is about as bad as the other, from his point of view. Conform to native customs, settle down, marry, lose everything that makes him a civilized man--or just simply go to hell by himself." "That's what he's doing?" "Right." "Well, but what is he combing those beaches _for_?" Maxwell frowned. "Don't be a cretin. These particular beaches have nothing to do with it; he just happens to be on one at the moment. He's a beachcomber because he lives like a bum--doesn't do any work, doesn't see people, just loafs and waits to be old enough to die." "That's awful," said Alice. "It's--such a waste." "In more ways than one," Maxwell added drily. "But what do you want? There's only one place he could be happy--three million years from now--and he can't go back. He says there isn't any place to go back to. I don't know what he means; he refuses to clarify that point." * * * * *