But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him, and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw--what he had always seen, except that now there was the added factor of change--perhaps did not exist _in_ the viewport. Maybe it existed _through_ the viewport. That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more confusing than ever. "Chuls," he called, remembering, "come here." "I am here," said a voice at his elbow. Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of vapor. "What do you see?" Chuls looked. "The viewport, of course." "What else?" "Else? Nothing." Anger welled up inside Rikud. "All right," he said, "listen. What do you hear?" "Broom, brroom, brrroom!" Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting of the engines. "I'm hungry, Rikud." The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the dining room, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more. * * * * * Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For a moment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world. But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? And besides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something far vaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewport which was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover, did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardens did. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. * * * * * For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to accept it as fact. There--through the viewport and in it--was a garden. A garden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud had never seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through the world's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless, it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, "It is the viewport." Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. "It looks like the garden," he admitted to Rikud. "But why should the garden be in the viewport?" Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking--the word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere was the garden and the world had arrived. "It is an old picture of the garden," Chuls suggested, "and the plants are different." "Then they've changed?" "No, merely different." "Well, what about the viewport? _It_ changed. Where are the stars? Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?" "The stars come out at night."