Vortler looked defeated. "Yes." "And that's that." Angus started for the barway. "I don't know what started this thing off, John. Perhaps if a man loves his wife a little too much, a thing like this can happen. Maybe that's why they've watched our charts so carefully." Hastings was already talking to himself. "If I can just prove it one way or the other. If I can just know she's—alone." The white clad figure paused. "Think it over, John. Change your mind. I don't like any part of it." "Angus," John said softly. "I don't like it either. I don't want the sight of Mary on that lens! To leave what print? A dream smashed? A dishonor? Who knows?" The doctor shook his head. "Look out the viewplate, John. What do you see? Planet systems, galaxies, eons. What is one tiny less-than-a-mite in all of that? What does it mean to you? The mind of the Almighty—or a few cents worth of bone, and hair, and tissue? Ask yourself, John. What do you see?" He closed the barway behind him. John followed and threw the pressure lock. Going to a sleek instrument, his hands inquired softly along its lines. Cold as space. Sure. Doubt proof. He swept the litter from his desk, and set the instrument in its center. Levers spun, mirrors sent out chips of light, adjusters adjusted. Then, pausing, he moved to the viewplate and stood looking out a long time. His hands mangled themselves constantly behind his back. A star twinkled—one star in particular—as if through the prism of a cold tear. But he went back to the instrument, and bent to it slowly. And as he gripped the desk, his knuckles erupted, pale as washed gravestones.... And the graph lines shivered and glowed hot, and the hate came pouring out of the shining needle between the stars, and somewhere a voice called into space.... "Come back, John Hastings, come back," the Questioner said. "You may return to the present." Throbbing, the screen died as a stirring exhalation came from the crowd. Someone asked for more air. A baby cried, and was lulled to sleep.
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