So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the dreams. And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky. "If I had a choice," he thought, "I wouldn't ever wake up at all again. The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable." Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one compensation--he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way across the Cosmos. But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious. "Bruce--Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure to be five hundred thousand feet! It _is_ impossible. We keep climbing and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is going up and up--" And some time later: "Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it. Women don't have real guts." Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled softly at the door. "Marsha," he said. "Bruce--" She hadn't said his name that way for a long time. "Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't matter...." He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper. "Bruce, hello down there." Her voice was all mixed up with fear and hysteria and mockery. "Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that? I really love you, after all. After all...." Her voice drifted away, came back to him. "We're climbing the highest mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What are you doing--reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was that, Bruce--that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?" * * * * * He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the mike. He got through to her. "Hello, hello, darling," he whispered. "Marsha, can you hear me?" "Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling. Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down."