n, quickly, until he was in a part of the country where he
didn't see any houses. Just a stream and a grove of trees and bright
flowers. He dropped lower, stopped, got out and walked down to the
stream.

It was by another stream that he'd met the children who had laughed at
him, years ago. He smiled, sadly.

He felt alone, but in a different sense from his usual isolation. He
felt free, away from people, away even from the books and their unspoken
insistence that their writers were dead and almost forgotten. He stood
by the edge of the stream, watching water spiders scoot across the
rippled surface.

This was the same. This stream had probably been here when the old race
was here, maybe even before the old race had even come into existence.

Water spiders. Compared to man, their race was immortal....

The sun was low when he turned away from the stream and walked back to
where he had parked the aircar. He scarcely looked about him as he
walked. He was sure he was alone, and he felt no caution, no need to
watch and listen.

But as he turned toward the car he saw the people. Two. Young, about his
own age. A boy and a girl, smiling at each other, holding hands.

They weren't a dozen feet in front of him. But they didn't notice him.
They were conscious of no one but each other. As Eric watched, standing
frozen, unwilling to draw attention to himself by even moving or backing
up, the two leaned closer together. Their arms went around each other,
tightly, and they kissed.

They said nothing. They kissed, and then stood apart and went on looking
at each other. Even without being able to perceive, Eric could feel
their emotion.

Then they turned, slowly, toward him. In a moment they would be aware of
him. He didn't want them to think he was spying on them, so he went
toward them, making no effort to be quiet, and as he moved they stepped
still farther apart and looked at him, startled.

They looked at each other as he passed, even more startled, and the
girl's hand went up to her mouth in surprise.

They know, Eric thought bitterly. They know I'm different.

He didn't want to go back to the museum. He flew blindly, not looking
down at the neat domed houses and the gardens and the people, but ahead,
to the eastern sky and the upthrust scarp of the hills. The hills, where
people like him had fled, for a little while.

The occasional aircars disappeared. The gardens dropped away, and the
ordered color, and there wa