I could read in his eyes what he thought of me. Of me and all the other farmers who lived in the outlying districts and raised crops and seldom came to the city. My clothes were old and provincial and out of style, and so was I, to him. "I'll try it anyway," I said. He started to say something, then bit it back and looked away from me again. I was keeping him from his work. I was just a rude old man interfering with the operation of the spaceways. Slowly I let go of the desk and turned to leave. It was hard to walk. My knees were trembling, and my whole body shook. It was all I could do not to cry. It angered me, the quavering in my voice and the weakness in my legs. I went out into the hall and looked for the directory that would point the way to the colonial office. It wasn't far off. I walked out onto the edge of the field and past the Earth rocket, its silver nose pointed up at the sky. I couldn't bear to look at it for longer than a minute. It was only a few hundred yards to the colonial office, but it seemed like miles. * * * * * This office was larger than the other, and much more comfortable. The man seated behind the desk seemed friendlier too. "May I help you?" he asked. "Yes," I said slowly. "The man at the ticket office told me to come here. I wanted to see about getting a permit to go back to Earth...." His smile faded. "For yourself?" "Yes," I said woodenly. "For myself and my wife." "Well, Mr...." "Farwell. Lewis Farwell." "My name's Duane. Please sit down, won't you?... How old are you, Mr. Farwell?" "Eighty-seven," I said. "In Earth years." He frowned. "The regulations say no space travel for people past seventy, except in certain special cases...." I looked down at my hands. They were shaking badly. I knew he could see them shake, and was judging me as old and weak and unable to stand the trip. He couldn't know why I was trembling. "Please," I whispered. "It wouldn't matter if it hurt us. It's just that we want to see Earth again. It's been so long...." "How long have you been here, Mr. Farwell?" It was merely politeness. There wasn't any promise in his voice. "Sixty-five years." I looked up at him. "Isn't there some way--" "Sixty-five years? But that means you must have come here on the first colonizing ship." "Yes," I said. "We did." "I can't believe it," he said slowly. "I can't believe I'm actually looking at one of the pioneers." He shook his head. "I didn't even know any of them were still on Mars." "We're the last ones," I said. "That's the main reason we want to go back. It's awfully hard staying on when your friends are dead." * * * * * Duane got up and crossed the room to the window and looked out over the rocket field. "But what good would it do to go back, Mr. Farwell?" he asked. "Earth has changed very much in the last sixty-five years."