Tad fiddled with his fork, his eyes down. The room was silent; even Florence sat tense, startled by the outburst. George sat glumly. That was stupid, he thought. Inexcusably stupid. You'll have to face it some day--you know that. Now? Maybe--oh, Lord, not now--maybe tomorrow. But what could you say? What if it _is_ now? His hand trembled as he fumbled awkwardly for his pipe. Where were the words, the phrases, the arguments, so long rehearsed, so sensible, so fatherly? "Dad." His fingers were like ice on the pipe bowl. Not tomorrow, then. Now. "Dad." "Yes, Tad." The boy looked straight at his father, his voice very low. "I'm going, dad," he said. "I'm going with it." * * * * * The chill widened in George Barlow's stomach, spreading into his legs and chest. He heard his wife's startled gasp, and the chill deepened. He searched for words, and no words came. How long, now, had he prepared, rehearsed? And now--nothing. He just sat there in the dead still room-- "Well, I never heard anything more ridiculous in all my life!" Florence burst out finally. "You're crazy, Tad. Plumb crazy. Do you mean to sit there and say that you're going to give up college, throw away this farm?" She set the cream pitcher down with a thump. "It's out of the question. You just can't mean it." Tad wriggled uneasily. "I do mean it, mom. The STAR KING is signing up crew tomorrow. They have places for four novices, this time. They'll take me. I know they will. I--I asked this afternoon. I want to go." George Barlow gripped the edge of the table, fighting for control. "Don't be silly, boy," he said finally, his voice tight. "You're no Rocket man. You don't know what you're saying--" his hands trembled. "Space is no place for a fellow like you--you belong here, studying, working--not hopping around space like a common tramp." He tamped tobacco into his pipe bowl with an air of finality. "Every boy nowadays thinks about going to Space, I know. The fleets are growing larger, taking more and more boys--but the smart ones stay home." Tad's voice was low and quiet, more deadly firm than George had ever heard it. "You don't understand, dad. I know you don't like it--I know you think it's foolish not to finish college, you hate to see me leave home--but you don't understand." He looked up, his boyish face pale under deep summer tan. "I can't explain it, dad. Ever since I was little, since I saw my first Rocket shooting up into the sky toward the stars, I knew I had to go, too, sometime." He shook his head helplessly. "It's what I've wanted all my life, dad. I've _got_ to go." "But the farm, son--" Florence was almost in tears. "Doesn't that mean anything to you? Your family's been here for a hundred years, Tad. It's yours, as soon as you're ready to farm it. Don't you _care_ about it after all these years?"