o gray to dusty blue. A bright star was
breaking through the curtain of fading light. He knew it was Venus, the
Evening Star. But let it be Earth, he thought. And instead of white, let
it be the color of an emerald.

He paused in midstream, letting the warm water riffle around his feet.
Looking up at the green beacon of his home planet, he thought: I've left
all that behind me. It was never really what I wanted. Mars is where I
belong. With my friends, Tars Tarkas the great Green Jeddak, and Carter,
the Warlord, and all the beautiful brave people._

* * * * *

_The phonograph sang with Vallee's voice: "Cradle me where southern
skies can watch me with a million eyes----"

Kimmy's eyes narrowed and he waded stealthily across the sacred river.
That would be Matai Shang, the Father of Holy Therns--spreading his arms
to the sunset and standing safely on his high balcony in the Golden
Cliffs while the Plant Men gathered to attack the poor pilgrims Iss had
brought to this cursed valley.

"Sing me to sleep, lullaby of the leaves"--the phonograph sang. Kimmy
stepped cautiously ashore and moved into the cover of a clump of
willows. The sky was darkening fast. Other stars were shining through.
There wasn't much time left._

* * * * *

Kimball stood now in the bright glare of the briefing shack, a strange
figure in blood-colored plastic. The representatives of the press had
been handed the mimeographed releases by the PRO and now they sat in
silence, studying the red figure of the man who was to ride the rocket.

They were thinking: Why him? Out of all the scores of
applicants--because there are always applicants for a sure-death
job--and all the qualified pilots, why this one?

The Public Relations Officer was speaking now, reading from the mimeoed
release as though these civilians couldn't be trusted to get the sparse
information given them straight without his help, given grudgingly and
without expression.

Kimball listened, only half aware of what was being said. He watched the
faces of the men sitting on the rows of folding chairs, saw their eyes
like wounds, red from the early morning hour and the murmuring reception
of the night before in the Officers' Club. They are wondering how _I_
feel, he was thinking. And asking themselves why I want to go.

On the dais nearby, listening to the PRO, but watching Kimball, sat
Steinhart, the team analyst. Kimball