his mouth as if to speak again, then smiled and shook his head.

I said it for him: "You're going back."

"Yes," he answered. "Yes, I'm going back. I know the coordinates of the entrance to the passageway and its dimensions and the kind of equipment I'll need. Nothing elaborate. In another year or so, I'll have enough saved up, I think. Get myself a little space launch; one of the smaller ones, lifeboat size. Fit it out with food and water—and some picture books, of course, to show them what it's like where I come from. I'd take somebody along with me if I could find anyone who wanted to go—and who believed me."

"I believe you," I said. "But—"

"Sure. You'd be crazy to go. Wife and kids. I've got none of that. Mostly what I want to do, I guess, is prove those longbeards upstairs are cockeyed."

"I hope you do. Maybe you'll let me write about it when you get back."

"It'll be a good story," Regan assured me.

"I'll be waiting for it," I promised.

That was five years ago. Four years ago, Regan went, as he said he would. He went alone, in a little space launch.

I'm still waiting to write the end of the story.

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