"Brown." "Dave, I'm a qualified observer and I recall them as blue!" "Wishful thinking. Probably your first love had blue eyes." Jane lit a match and held it over him for an instant. "Blue," she said. "Are you going to believe your eyes or what I tell you?" he demanded. "My eyes," she said. "Just because I happen to think you're quite special, I don't necessarily believe everything you say." "What's so special? I'm just an ordinary sort of guy. Most of the things I learned in school haven't been much use to me. I drink too much and smoke too much, go to church far too little--if at all--and have no immediate hope for mankind." "You're an idealist." "No cigar. Cynic, yes. But idealist--?" "You are," she said. "You are also some sort of human dynamo. You come as a newspaperman to report on our doings and end up marching yourself into danger and almost running the research group." "Think of the story I'll be able to write," he said. "And if you don't--?" He laughed. "I'm in no danger," he said. "I hope you aren't." "Better me than someone who might be able to solve this thing." "I don't think so." "I'm no loss to civilization, Jane." "That's your fault," she told him, half-angry. "You could be a great asset if you'd only try." "And what form of attempt does this require?" "Stop playing cynic. We don't need people to tell civilization that it has a dirty back yard or a few rotten beams in the cellar. What we need is a few men with ideals to tell us how to clean up the yard and how to bolster the rotten stringers. Set your sights on some goal, and then settle down to work for it." Dave groaned. "How do you start settling down after thirty-five years of hell-raising?" "Do you want to know?" "I've often wanted to know." "Get married, Dave." "Who'd have me?" "I would. Marry me, Dave." "Lord, no!" he exploded. "I expected a refusal," she said softly. "I didn't expect quite such a vigorous rejection." "I'm not rejecting you," he said earnestly. "You're a fine woman, Jane." "Who was she?" Jane asked. "She? Who?" "The girl that broke your heart." Dave laughed. "I'm not carrying any torch," he told her. He leaned on one elbow and looked down at her. The starlight was faint, but he could see her well enough. "In fact, Jane, under other circumstances I might get quite soft-headed about you." "Then why not?" He flopped back and stared at the sky. "Jane, you've accused me of being brave. This is damned foolishness. I'm not brave. I've got about six months to live, and I'm told the end will not be pleasant. I'd prefer to go black in a hurry, doing something that couldn't be done by a man with his life ahead of him. That isn't bravery; it's just cutting clean the end of a well-frayed rope." "Who says so?" demanded Jane. "The famous Dr. Thomas Meteridge." "He might be wrong." Crandall chuckled. "He's seldom wrong. Fact is, Jane, I've to kick off in six months, otherwise Old Doc Meteridge is a quack and a charlatan."