"Because others are. And what of you and Loa? When they come to take me, they will take you two as well. What kind of a man would I be to live a few stinking/ years at the expense-"
"Stop it, Grew. I don't want histrionics. We've told you many times what we're going to do. We'll report you a week before the Census. "
"And fool the doctor, I suppose?"
"We'll bribe the doctor."
"Hmp. And this new man-he'll double the offense. You'll be concealing him too."
"We'll turn him loose. For Space's sake, why bother about this now? We have two years. What shall we do with him?"
"A stranger," mused Grew. "He comes knocking at the door. He's from nowhere. He speaks unintelligibly...I don't know what to advise."
The farmer said, "He is mild-mannered; seems frightened to death. He can't do us any harm."
"Frightened, eh? What if he's feeble-minded? What if his babbling isn't a foreign dialect at an, but just insane mouthing?"
"That doesn't sound likely." But Arbin stirred uneasily.
"You tell yourself that because you want to use him... All right, I'll tell you what to do. Take him into town."
"To Chica?" Arbin was horrified. "That would be ruin."
"Not at all," said Grew calmly. "The trouble with you is that you don't read the newspapers. Fortunately for this family, I do. It so happens that the Institute for Nuclear Research has developed an instrument that is supposed to make it easier for people to learn. There was a full-page spread in the Week-end Supplement. And they want volunteers. Take this man. Let him be a volunteer."
Arbin shook his head firmly. "You're mad. I couldn't do anything like that, Grew. They'll ask for his registration number first thing. It's only inviting investigation to have things in improper order, and then they'll find out about you."
"No, they won't. It so happens you're all wrong, Arbin. The reason the Institute wants volunteers is that the machine is still experimental. It's probably killed a few people, so I'm sure they won't ask questions. And if the stranger dies, he'll probably be no worse off than he is now...Here, Arbin, hand me the book projector and set the mark at reel six. And bring me the paper as soon as it comes, will you?"
When Schwartz opened his eyes, it was past noon. He felt that dun, heart-choking pain that feeds on itself, the pain of a wife no longer by his side at waking, of a familiar world lost...
Once before he had felt such a pain, and that momentary flash of memory came, lighting up a forgotten scene into sharp brilliance. There was himself, a youngster, in the snow of the wintry village...with the sleigh waiting...at the end of whose journey would be the train...and, after that, the great ship...
The longing, frustrating fear for the world of the familiar united him for the moment with that twenty-year-old who had emigrated to America.
The frustration was too real. This could not be a dream.
He jumped up as the light above the door blinked on and off and the meaningless baritone of his host sounded. Then the door opened and there was breakfast-a mealy porridge that he did not recognize but which tasted faintly like corn mush (with a savory difference) and milk.
He said, "Thanks," and nodded his head vigorously.
The farmer said something in return and picked up Schwartz's shirt from where it hung on the back of the chair. He inspected it carefully from an directions, paying particular attention to the buttons. Then, replacing it, he flung open the sliding door of a closet, and for the first time Schwartz became visually aware of the warm milkiness of the walls.
"Plastic," he muttered to himself, using that all-inclusive word with the finality laymen always do. He noted further that there were no corners or angles in the room, all planes fading into each other at a gentle curve.
But the other was holding objects out toward him and was making gestures that could not be mistaken. Schwartz obviously was to wash and dress.
With help and directions, he obeyed. Except that he found nothing with which to shave, nor could gestures to his chin elicit anything but an incomprehensible sound accompanied by a look of distinct revulsion on the part of the other. Schwartz scratched at his gray stubble and sighed windily.
And then he was led to a small, elongated, biwheeled car, into which he was ordered by gestures. The ground sped beneath them and the empty road moved backward on either side, until low, sparkling white buildings rose before him, and there, far ahead, was the blue of water.
He pointed eagerly. "Chicago?"
It was the last gasp of hope within him, for certainly nothing he ever saw looked less like that city.
The farmer made no answer at all.
And the last hope died.
3. One World Or Many?
Bel Arvardan, fresh from his interview with the press, on the occasion of his forthcoming expedition to Earth, felt at supreme peace with all the hundred million star systems that composed the all-embracing Galactic Empire. It was no longer a question of being known in this sector or that. Let his theories concerning Earth be proven and his reputation would be assured on every inhabited planet of the Milky Way, on every planet that Man had set foot through the hundreds of thousands of years of expansion through space.
These potential heights of renown, these pure and rarefied intellectual peaks of science were coming to him early, yet not easily. He was scarcely thirty-five, but already his career had been packed with controversy. It had begun with an explosion that had rocked the halls of the University of Arcturus when he first graduated as Senior Archaeologist from that institution at the unprecedented age of twenty-three. The explosion-no less effective for being immaterial -consisted of the rejection for publication, on the part of the Journal of the Galactic Archaeological Society, of his Senior Dissertation. It was the first time in the history of the university that a Senior Dissertation had been rejected. It was equally the first time in the history of that staid professional journal that a rejection had been couched in such blunt terms.