hat do you
want?" He had finished loading enough supplies aboard the rocket to last
him months.

Dorothy came toward him from the darkness.

"It's no use," he said. "You can't talk me out of it this time."

But she only smiled sadly and said, "I know that, Sam. I came to say
good-bye."

"Good-bye?"

"You're leaving, aren't you?"

"Yes." He looked at the ground, studying the darkness.

"I'm sorry, Sam," she said. "We started out wrong. Maybe, if we tried
again--"

But Sam said quickly, "No. I'm sorry too, but people don't change."

The remark startled him. He had used it occasionally to rationalize his
position, had been convinced of its undeniable truth--yet suddenly he
realized that he himself was its living denial. People _could_ change,
just as he had changed, just as Dorothy could change. It had been partly
his fault when he first gave in to something he didn't want to do, and
then to something else, and something else after that. He had helped dig
the rut in which he had found himself, taking it for granted just as
Dorothy had taken it for granted.

Her hair was soft in the same moonlight that had shone eight years
before, and Sam Meecham felt a desire that had been too long
unfulfilled.

"Dorothy, I--"

He hesitated. The decision came hard to him, for much of his life had
been devoted to giving in to the decisions of others. This was the
moment he had been waiting for, and now at the last moment he was
uncertain.

He said suddenly, "Can you pack a few things?"

"Sam--" Her voice in the darkness was eager. Her hands touched his. Soft
hands.

"You'd better hurry," he told her.

Sam watched her go to the house, and doubts began to gnaw at him. Was he
going to destroy his plans now at a whim? He felt an impulse to get into
the rocket and leave without her--yet he thought of the cold emptiness
of space and himself drifting through alien worlds, alone, lonely.
Perhaps it was wrong but he couldn't condemn her for something that was
partly his fault. He was trying to become the person he once might have
been, and it was only fair that she should have the same chance.

Dorothy came hurrying back, a suitcase in her hand, and there was an
eagerness about her that pleased him. He helped her put the suitcase on
board.

"Dorothy--"

Her voice was soft and low. "Yes, Sam?" Starlight danced in her eyes.

He pulled her gently to him. He kissed her, and that night eight years
ago came back, and in his a