n a local menace. And well before that could happen--before
even the oldest of Tellus' loose vortices had eaten away much of her
mass or poisoned much of her atmosphere, her scientists would have
solved the problem. It was unthinkable that Tellus, the point of origin
and the very center of Galactic Civilization, should cease to exist.

* * * * *

But to Neal Cloud the accident was the ultimate catastrophe. His
personal universe had crashed in ruins; what was left was not worth
picking up. He and Jo had been married for almost twenty years and the
bonds between them had grown stronger, deeper, truer with every passing
day. And the kids.... It _couldn't_ have happened ... fate COULDN'T do
this to him ... but it had ... it could. Gone ... gone ... GONE....

And to Neal Cloud, atomic physicist, sitting there at his desk in torn,
despairing abstraction, with black maggots of thought gnawing holes in
his brain, the catastrophe was doubly galling because of its cruel
irony. For he was second from the top in the Atomic Research Laboratory;
his life's work had been a search for a means of extinguishment of
exactly such loose vortices as had destroyed his all.

His eyes focussed vaguely upon the portrait. Clear, honest gray eyes ...
lines of character and of humor ... sweetly curved lips, ready to smile
or to kiss....

He wrenched his eyes away and scribbled briefly upon a sheet of paper.
Then, getting up stiffly, he took the portrait and moved woodenly across
the room to a furnace. As though enshrining it he placed the plastic
block upon a refractory between the electrodes and threw a switch. After
the flaming arc had done its work he turned and handed the paper to a
tall man, dressed in plain gray leather, who had been watching him with
quiet, understanding eyes. Significant enough to the initiated of the
importance of this laboratory is the fact that it was headed by an
Unattached Lensman.

"As of now, Phil, if it's QX with you."

The Gray Lensman took the document, glanced at it, and slowly,
meticulously, tore it into sixteen equal pieces.

"Uh, uh, Storm," he denied, gently. "Not a resignation. Leave of
absence, yes--indefinite--but not a resignation."

"Why?" It was scarcely a question; Cloud's voice was level,
uninflected. "I won't be worth the paper I'd waste."

"Now, no," the Lensman conceded, "but the future's another matter. I
haven't said anything so far, because to anyone who