And as gold had eluded the best efforts of most men in past years, so Roxite eluded all but the luckiest prospectors today. There was plenty of Roxite in the universe. But most of it was buried deep within the cores of tremendous suns. Suns that had a surface temperature that made the hottest things on Earth seem like a bitter arctic blast by comparison. The thing that counted on Earth these days was brains. Everyone had ample opportunity to develop what brain power they had. The finest schools and universities boasting the most advanced and elaborately presented programs of education ever known were free to the multitudes. But of what value was an ultra fine education when everyone else had one, too? It still settled back to basic ingenuity and natural inborn intelligence when it came to the man who got ahead and the man who stayed behind. Five hundred years ago, possessing his present knowledge he might have been one of the world's greatest men. Today he was just one of millions of others, all of whom could do the same things he could--and some of them could do better. What an incomparable paradox he presented. Physically he was more than a match for ninety-nine per cent of all Earth men. His great height and weight, his brutal strength--those thick hairy arms of his could crush the average man in a few minutes. Gigantic muscles didn't count any more. Of what use sixteen inch biceps when the frailest child could operate the buttons necessary to perform most of the menial duties of life? Men like him were pushed by invisible, relentless pressures into the only thing open for them. To operate one of these tiny star-ships and comb the universe for more Roxite--to keep the interplanetary liners blasting. Roxite. He had found some. Enough to keep his ship operating as it plunged past millions of starry universes. But not enough to bring back to Earth and collect any sizeable sum. But he couldn't stand this life any longer. The inexpressible loneliness of space. Inconceivable light years from the world that bore him. Six years alone in such vastness was too much for any man. Six years of heartrending disappointments as he searched tirelessly for the precious Roxite--and found only a little. But this was the end. He was going to make a last desperate attempt to find his way back. Back to a cold, hostile, unfriendly civilization that might, out of charity, provide some lowly position for him--let him work enough to stay alive. Still, that was better than this. At least he could look up into the blue ceiling of the sky. Tread over green carpeted fields. Eat real, substantial, solid food and see other people. Yes, of a poor choice that alternative was the best.