"It may be attractive," she said. "But you always leave it soon enough." He nodded. "It's too confining. It's all right, for a little while, but then...." "How can you say that?" She shook her head sadly. Already they were arguing the same old unresolvable argument, and they had scarcely greeted each other. After all his months in space they met with the same words as they had parted. She looked past him, up and out, toward the horizon that seemed so many miles away, toward the morning sun that seemed to hang far, far off in the vaulted blue dome of the sky. "How can you even think it? About this?" His lips tightened. "About _this_," he repeated. "A horizon you could ride to in five minutes. A world you could ride around in two hours. A sun--you really call it a sun--that you could almost reach up and pluck out of that sky of yours." He laughed. "Illusions. World of illusions." "Well, what do you have? A ship--a tiny ship you can't get out of, with walls you can see, all around you." "Yes, Trina, with walls we can see." He was still smiling, watching her, and she knew that he desired her. And she desired him. But not the stars. "You have nothing like this," she said, knowing it wouldn't do any good. She looked past him at the light tower, one of the many that formed the protective screen about her world, that made it seem great and convex, a huge flattened sphere with the sun high above, and not the swift curving steel ball that it actually was. This was her world. It was like Earth, like the old Earth of the legends of the time before the radiation wars. And even though her mind might know the truth about the screens that refracted light and the atomic pile that was her sun, her heart knew a more human truth. This was a world. As it had been in the beginning. As it must be till the end--or until they found a new Earth, somewhere, sometime.... Max sighed. "Yes, you have your world, Trina. And it's a good one--the best of its kind I've ever visited." "Why don't you stay here then?" A spaceman, she thought. With all the dozens of men in my world, why did it have to be a spaceman? With all the visitors from New France and New Chile and New Australia last festival, why did it have to be him? "I have the stars, Trina." "We do too!" Last festival, and the warm June night, heavy, druggedly heavy with honeysuckle and magnolia, and the hidden music from the pavillions. And Max Cramer, tall and strong boned and alien, holding her in his arms, dancing her away from her people, out onto the terrace above the little stream, beneath the full festival moon and the summer stars, the safe, sane, well ordered constellations that their ancestors had looked upon from Earth. "My stars are real, Trina." She shook her head, unable to argue with him. World-woman and spaceman, and always different, with nothing in common between them, really, except a brief forgetfulness at festival time. "Come with me, Trina."