Even the hands of the sprawled form seemed larger and hairier than the hands of her husband. Nevertheless it was important to be sure ... The absence of the mole clinched it. Sally crouched beside the body, carefully readjusting the collar. Then she got up and walked out of the office. Some homecomings are joyful, others cruel. Sitting in the taxi, clenching and unclenching her hands, Sally had no plan that could be called a plan, no hope that was more than a dim flickering in a vast wasteland, bleak and unexplored. But it was strange how one light burning brightly in a cottage window could make even a wasteland seem small, could shrink and diminish it until it became no more than a patch of darkness that anyone with courage might cross. The light was in Tommy's room and there was a whispering behind the door. Sally could hear the whispering as she tiptoed upstairs, could see the light streaming out into the hall. She paused for an instant at the head of the stairs, listening. There were two voices in the room, and they were talking back and forth. Sally tiptoed down the hall, stood with wildly beating heart just outside the door. "She knows now, Tommy," the deepest of the two voices said. "We are very close, your mother and I. She knows now that I sent her to the office to find my 'stand in.' Oh, it's an amusing term, Tommy--an Earth term we'd hardly use on Mars. But it's a term your mother would understand." A pause, then the voice went on, "You see, my son, it has taken me eight years to repair the ship. And in eight years a man can wither up and die by inches if he does not have a growing son to go adventuring with him in the end." "Adventuring, father?" "You have read a good many Earth books, my son, written especially for boys. _Treasure Island_, _Robinson Crusoe_, _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea_. What paltry books they are! But in them there is a little of the fire, a little of the glow of _our_ world." "No, father. I started them but I threw them away for I did not like them." "As you and I must throw away all Earth things, my son. I tried to be kind to your mother, to be a good husband as husbands go on Earth. But how could I feel proud and strong and reckless by her side? How could I share her paltry joys and sorrows, chirp with delight as a sparrow might chirp hopping about in the grass? Can an eagle pretend to be a sparrow? Can the thunder muffle its voice when two white-crested clouds collide in the shining depths of the night sky?" "You tried, father. You did your best." "Yes, my son, I did try. But if I had attempted to feign emotions I did not feel your mother would have seen through the pretense. She would then have turned from me completely. Without her I could not have had you, my son." "And now, father, what will we do?"