Arkalion smiled. "By George, of course. Then you were here. Temple, we'll get along fine." Temple said that was swell. "Anyway, we'd better. Forever is a long time." Three minutes later, the jet took off and soared on eager wings toward the setting sun. * * * * * "Men, since we are leaving here in a few hours and since there is no way to get out of the encampment and no place to go over the desert even if you could," the microphone in the great, empty hall boomed as the two files of men marched in, "there is no harm in telling you where you are. From this point, in a limited sense, you shall be kept abreast of your progress. "We are in White Sands, New Mexico." "The Garden Spot of the Universe!" someone shouted derisively, remembering the bleak hot desert and jagged mountain peaks as they came down. "White Sands," muttered Arkalion. "It looks like space travel now, doesn't it, Kit." Temple shrugged. "Why?" "White sands was the center of experiments in rocketry decades ago, when people still talked about those things. Then, for a long time, no one heard anything about White Sands. The rockets grew here, Kit." "I can readily see why. You could look all your life without finding a barren spot like this." "Precisely. Someone once called this place--or was it some other place like it?--someone once called it a good place to throw old razor blades. If people still used razor blades." The microphone blared again, after the several hundred men had entered the great hall and milled about among the echoes. Temple could picture other halls like this, other briefings. "Men, whenever you are given instructions, in here or elsewhere, obey them instantly. Our job is a big one, complicated and exacting. Attention to detail will save us trouble." Someone said, "My old man served a hitch in the army, back in the sixties. That's what he always said, attention to details. The army is crazy about things like that. Are we in the army or something?" "This is not the army, but the function is similar," barked the microphone. "Do as you are told and you will get along." Stirrings in the crowd. Mutterings. Temple gaped. Microphone, yes--but receivers also, placed strategically, all around the hall, to pick up sound. Telio receivers too, perhaps? It made him feel something like a goldfish. Apparently someone liked the idea of the two-way microphones. "I got a question. When are we coming back?" Laughter. Hooting. Catcalls. Blared the microphone: "There is a rotation system in operation, men. When it is feasible, men will be rotated." "Yeah, in thirty years it ain't been whatsiz--feasible--once!" "That, unfortunately, is correct. When the situation permits, we will rotate you home." "From where? Where are we going?" "At least tell us that." "Where?" "How about that?"