"The colonies!" George Barlow's voice rose angrily, his control wearing thin. "Why the colonies? What glory can you see in working a lifetime to squeeze a living out of Mars rock? Scraping and fighting, squeezing every last drop of water, every possible inch of topsoil to dig up enough to keep barely alive--and then dying thirty years before your time? What can you see in that? Or Venus, where you sweat, and waste away, until the fungus gets into your lungs and blood, and you finally just go to sleep forever? You're crazy, Tad! You can't do it!" Tad shuffled his feet, his eyes downcast. "I knew you wouldn't understand. I can't explain it, dad--I don't know the words. But I've got to go, even if you don't--" George's face flushed in exasperation. "Now look. Just listen a minute. I understand perfectly, I just--" "_You don't understand!_" The boy's eyes blazed in sudden anger, his voice was bitter. "How _could_ you understand? You've been nothing but a slogging dirt farmer all your life! How could you understand why I'd want to go to the stars? What do you know about Mars, or Venus? _You've never been there!_" George Barlow sat stiff, as though he had been struck. The room was tense, and he heard the boy breathing across the room. "Then you give me no choice," he said finally, his voice suddenly tired and barely audible. "I'm your father. I forbid you to go." There was a long, silent moment. Then: "I'm sorry, dad. I'm going anyway." * * * * * George Barlow lay in bed, breathing quietly. The room was close, the air stuffy and humid. He heard his wife's steady breathing, peaceful now, after sobbing herself to sleep. And somehow, deep within him, he seemed to hear the steady pom-pom-pom of spaceship engines, deep, throaty, thrilling, throbbing, vibrating-- Calling-- He rose quietly and walked to the window. He heard Snuffy stir herself, heard her claws scrabbling on the bare farmhouse floor, and felt her warm muzzle, firm and comforting in his hand. Then he heard nothing but the buzzing of cicadas, the quiet night-sounds of the farm, smelled the cool, hearty odor of hay and clover, heard the occasional uneasy stomping of cattle in the barn. And still, deep in his mind, he heard older sounds, more familiar sounds, sounds tinged with fear, horror, hate, desperation--he shook his head, trying to forget, but there was excitement there, too, that intangible, overpowering thrill of the wanderlust-- Memories flooded back into his mind, memories he had thought long ago blotted out and forgotten. The rich thrill of excitement as the last seconds crowded in close, with the strap cutting a deep welt across his chest--the muffled roar, the powerful sledge-hammer blow, driving his stomach and legs down like lead, then easing, easing gently into no pressure, then less than no pressure--the exhilarating, wonder-filled vision of the Earth rushing away, dwindling into a mottled patchwork, still dwindling--