Phil shrugged. He was good at it. “Tell _her_,” he said. Johnny looked from the doctor to the general and back again. No point in crawling. Both men were set. He felt the inviting ache in his shoulder, and set it aside. If he was sure Prentiss would stay out of it.... He could clean up the other two without getting winded.... Good thing Prentiss was there. Just as well. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll _do_ that.” He started out. “Colonel Wendt?” He turned, half-way. Bully-boy Prentiss. “Yeah?” “I just thought I’d mention--the backroom boys think it’s pretty sure she’s subpoenaed. That would mean she’d be down next trip anyhow.” _Pacifier?_ He didn’t think so, somehow. The guy almost seemed human. “Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t think of that.” _New York--Monday, October 3, 7_ P.M. (_E.D.S.T._) The city hadn’t changed; it was he who had. Such a short time--and actually, very little had happened. _Very little. Sure. You just went right out of this world._ So: two years later--damn near--the doctor gets around to knowing what the man meant. Phil marveled, not for the first time, at the ease with which we assume communication; fool ourselves into the oddly arrogant delusion that we have heard, that we know, understand, even share, the consciousness of our fellowman. Phil Kutler walked the streets of the city he loved, and felt _bruised_. Everywhere were barriers. Walls: not only of brick and stone and wood, but walls of tougher, harder, more hurtful, flesh and blood and emotion. He wished, wished with all his heart, fervently, that someone in all the millions of his city, could _hear him_ now--as he, finally, _heard_ Johnny Wendt.... “_Mars is heaven, that’s what_....” As he had _heard_ Lisa--what was it? Four weeks--One month ago? It seemed hardly possible--and _understood_ that her need was not his own desire. Understood it, and still desired--hell, still _loved_! It was, looking back on it, highly improbable. _I am not that big a man_, he told himself soberly. And it was true. But he _had_ been. Then. _There._ Maybe Johnny was right. Maybe men ought to stay where they acted like men.... _No!_ _No, damn it, Johnny was wrong! As wrong as a man_ CAN _be_. “_Something up there makes us love_,” he paraphrased nervously, and admitted it frightened him, and stopped fearing it. _If anyone was right, Doug was!_ He laughed. It was that simple. _Just that simple._ No one would ever believe it, but he was deeply sure. He knew, because he was certain it was exactly what _he_ would have done. A stiff-backed, powder-caked claw-fingered female, rushing on tight-toed stilt heels, miscalculated; a bony shoulder knifed his bicep; a sharp elbow rose reflexively, caught him in the chest. “Whyncha look wareyagone?” she shrieked. “I beg your pardon,” he said. And wondered what Moon-change would happen to _her_, if she could go too?