Across the patio, a glow of light from the opaqued bedroom wall showed him Lisa was still up. He thought about that, and decided against it. Too much of that. Too much liquor; too much Lisa. Too much mash, too much mush. Half the drink was still in the glass. He stepped outside, and slowly, carefully, quietly, let it trickle over the edge of the tilted glass, till it was all gone, back to the soil. _Asses to ashes and alcohol to earth._ He lit a cigarette, and looked up again at the looming deceitful lure of the Moon. He wasn’t going there. He wasn’t going. _Anywhere._ He’d done all his going. And all his coming. Yeah. Too much. He looked at the drawing board. The design that had seemed so good, so _right_ in the afternoon now looked dead and clumsy. Hell with it. Hell with--Damn him! _Damn him!_ Coming in here with his talk and his problems and his five-year-old daydreams, throwing everything out of whack. Tilting the machine.... Great big blond baby who didn’t know it was too big to be out there. Nice safe little Moon base. Hell, the Moon was part of Earth, didn’t they know that? Took all the know-how they had to make out even there.... ... And they wanted to go to Mars! All the big babies, like Chris, out of the yard for the first time.... Stand on the curb screaming blue murder to get across the street. Well he’d been across the street. And back. Back for good. If they wouldn’t listen to him, that was their tough luck. What he needed was a drink. He went back and filled his glass. The bedroom light was out. Good. For once, there was nobody watching, waiting, listening, to see what he’d do. Nobody...? He walked through the living room and pushed the door open, suddenly, silently. She was asleep, sound asleep, sprawled on the bed like a kid. She was smiling a little bit. She was beautiful. He closed the door just as softly, and padded back to his work room. _Work_ room! That was a laugh. He laughed. _Haw, haw!_ The sound came out, too loud and not funny. What does Johnny Wendt want with a work room? Used to work. Don’t got to work now. _What for?_ Money? Smile once for a whiskey ad. That’s money. Science? That was a laugh, too, but he didn’t try it this time. Science is a big blond bastard, fixing it for everybody to go the way Doug went. _Which way? Which way did you go, Doug?_ _Doug, for krissake, where are you?_ _Come back, Doug._ _Doug, migod!_ And you stand on the dry dust with your suit all around you to keep you safe in the thin air, and miles away, whichever way you look, is nothing, nothing at all. Better have another drink. Put the bottle down, now. Careful. Might spill. PART THREE _Friday, June 24, 1977_ _Rockland--8:30_ A.M. _(E.D.S.T.)_ He woke with a twist in his neck and his shoulders and arms stiff and sore. Faint sounds somewhere took on shape and meaning. Lisa, in the kitchen. Breakfast. His stomach turned over, and settled down to hunger. He’d decided to go to the Moon. _Why?_