"Sorry." The man's gaze avoided Jeffrey's face. He moved swiftly, his tall body easing around the desk, then striding down the hall. Jeffrey was like a statue, an absurd, bulging-eyed statue with right hand still raised in a climactic, melodramatic gesture. "But I haven't finished!" he cried. "You haven't heard--" The lieutenant marched away, oblivious to Jeffrey's pleading voice. Abruptly, his bright uniform disappeared into one of the labyrinth's many rooms. Jeffrey was a fragile leaf mauled by winds of desperation. He dug furiously into his coat's inner pocket. "You haven't seen my proof!" he screamed. There was no reply save the cold, hollow, hundred-tongued echo of his own words. Jeffrey looked down at his outstretched hands. They were holding the faded photograph and the shining stone, offering them to the silence. * * * * * Outside, the city was like a merry-go-round whirling faster and faster. Music had swelled to a dizzying crescendo. Colors were brighter in the noon sunlight. Voices were louder, prayers stronger. "Ten to one they don't make it," said a rat-faced man. "I'll take _all_ bets." "They will not be alone," the solemn man in the black robe intoned to his congregation. "For yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...." "Why must Daddy go up into the sky, Mama? Why?" asked the child. "He's going to be a pioneer, dear. He's going to be one of the first to go to the moon." "But why, Mama? Why?" The bearded man shouted, "The wrath of God will fall upon us and upon our children and our children's children. Man was not meant--" "We have our Marco Polo, our Columbus, our Wright Brothers and our Lindbergh. Now, by the grace of God, we have our George Everson!" "Step right up, folks! Get your souvenir programs here! And don't forget your dark glasses for the take-off. Special today--only one dollar!" * * * * * A clock struck one. "No," said the stiffly polite girl, "the city editor isn't in. No, our reporters are covering the flight. Sorry." A clock struck two. "Sorry." Jeffrey sighed. What else was there? The Research Bureau. The Department of Defense, the Pentagon. _The Times_, _The Herald_, _The Post_. He hadn't wanted to take his story to the newspapers, but they had given him a last, futile hope. Now, even they had refused to listen. There was still _The Mirror_. The twilight news. The love nests, the exposés, the screaming headlines that most papers were saving for the second coming of Christ. Jeffrey found himself walking up dark, thinly carpeted stairs, pushing a faded swinging door. Then someone was leading him forward. Sounds of clacking typewriters and rustling papers filled the air. The photograph and the moon-stone were in his hands. He was thrusting them forward. "This is my proof," he mumbled automatically.