er to their proper terminals on each atomic
engine, and then when his shift was up he turned homeward to face an
existence equally uninspiring.

The moment he had seen that needle pass into the hundreds, Sam Meecham
knew what he was going to do. He had planned it years ago, when he first
stood alone in the night and gazed upward at the glittering diamonds
that lay beyond reach. Even then he had known what he would do if ever
the opportunity presented itself. In those moments of self-pity that
came too often, however, he had told himself that it was only wishful
thinking and cursed himself for being a weakling and a dreamer who did
nothing about his dreams. But he had resolved that someday he _would_ go
out among the stars.

That day had come, and as Sam Meecham went homeward that evening he felt
his heart beat in time with the pulsing light of the stars overhead. But
with this new exultation he felt a desperate fear. A fear that he might
again bypass his opportunity as he had done so often before. Yet he knew
that this was his greatest chance, perhaps his last chance. He must be
brave and strong, and above all confident that his intense longing would
make his venture successful.

"How did everything go?" Dorothy asked when he came in.

It was a mechanical question and he answered it mechanically, "Okay.
Everything went as usual."

He didn't want to look at her. She had grown plump since they had
married eight years ago, and by not looking at her he could somehow
pretend she was still slim and attractive.

She was lying on a couch, wearing a housecoat, and didn't look up from
the magazine in front of her. "Supper's on the table," she said.

For eight years he'd had flat, uninspiring meals, meals that kept one
from starving and no more. His complaints had met with more hostility
than he cared to cope with, and always, meekly he had retired from
the scene of battle wishing he had submitted and thus avoided the
tongue-lashing before which he felt so helpless.

Once more in the surroundings that bred it, a familiar, distasteful
helplessness rose to envelop Sam Meecham. It came across him as a
feeling of despair and bewilderment, and he wondered sickly if he would
ever escape this.

_Yes_, he told himself, clenching his fists determinedly. But he would
have to bide his time. Slowly, not really tasting it, he ate the cold,
uninviting meal set on the table.

Securing the engine was the least of his worries--at least