"I am sorry," he said, "but only so much time is permitted for your visits--unless you decide to join us permanently." This was new. I hadn't even considered the possibility. I suppose I'd been thinking of these _uru_ smokes as nothing more than pipe dreams--exciting and logical, even consecutive, but still only figments of the poppy ember. But apparently _uru_ was merely the key that opened the door to the real world for which it was named, a finite and beautiful planet spinning in a vastly distant galaxy at the other side of the spacial barrier. A world that Earthmen would never reach in this lifetime without the invitation and assistance of a native of that world who had developed mental powers beyond our comprehension. And Jones, not only a native but apparently a noble of Uru, was extending that invitation to me. Me, a dope addict, temporarily between kicks. Me, a dreg of humanity. Why? Jones was following my thoughts, I knew, but he only smiled and said I would have to leave. He would call me again. In the meantime I must consider his invitation. He had not made it frivolously, but had weighed all factors. If I accepted, it would have to be unquestioningly, trusting him as my brother. And it would be permanent. Once I chose Uru, there would be no returning to Earth. "Until we meet again," he said. I walked out into the street, pondering my choice. * * * * * My place depressed me. I poured myself half a tumbler of whiskey and walked around, holding the drink in my hand. I opened the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and looked at my works--the hypo, the eye-dropper and the old spoon, blackened on the bottom, in which I'd cooked so many batches of heroin. Sooner or later I'd go back to it, I knew, even though I kidded myself into thinking I might be off the stuff for good. Then the old round would begin again. The frantic search for a pusher when my supply ran low. Setting up a meet in some cafeteria or lunch counter to get the stuff. Rushing back to my place, with every stranger looking like a copper ready to tap me. The search in my poor scarred arm for a vein that hadn't withdrawn out of sight. Maybe even the necessity for a messy skin injection. The fleeting relief. And then the anxiety of no money. A dirty job, possibly washing dishes in some greasy kitchen if the heat was on. Or risking a stint of lush-working in the subway, haunted by copper jitters and five-twenty-nine--five months and twenty-nine days in the workhouse--if they nabbed me "jostling" a drunk. I couldn't go back to that life. I couldn't--but I would. I always had. You reach a point where you can't change any more. It's too late--you're too old--you don't know anything else--you've got no connections outside the squalid circle of users, pushers, teaheads, queers and petty crooks who are nowhere and never will be anywhere. It was a limbo, a hell on Earth. I swallowed my drink in burning gulps.