friend, and who had said little all during the session, though he knew
more about space travel than any of them--as much as anybody can know
without ever having been off the Earth.

"Hey, Paul," Frank called in a low tone, leaning his elbows across a
workbench.

"Yeah?"

"Nothing," Frank Nelsen answered with a lopsided smile.

But he felt that that was the right word, when your thoughts and
feelings became too huge and complicated for you to express with any
ease.

Grandeur, poetry, music--for instance, the haunting popular song, _Fire
Streak_, about the burial of a spaceman--at orbital speed--in the
atmosphere of his native planet. And fragments of history, such as
covered wagons. All sorts of subjects, ideas and pictures were swirling
inside his head. Wanting to sample everything in the solar system...
Home versus the distance, and the fierce urge to build a wild history of
his own... Gentleness and lust to be fulfilled, sometime. There would be
a girl... And there were second thoughts to twist your guts and make you
wonder if all your savage drives were foolish. But there was a duty to
be equal to your era--helping to give dangerously crowded humanity on
Earth more room, dispersal, a chance for race survival, if some
unimaginable violence were turned loose...

He thought of the names of places Out There. Serenitatis
Base--Serene--on the Moon. Lusty, fantastic Pallastown, on the Golden
Asteroid, Pallas... He remembered his parents, killed in a car wreck
just outside of Jarviston, four Christmases ago. Some present!... But
there was one small benefit--he was left free to go where he wanted,
without any family complications, like other guys might have. Poor Dave
Lester. How was it that his mother allowed him to be with the Bunch at
all? How did he work it? Or was she the one that was right?...

Paul Hendricks had leaned his elbows on the workbench, too.
"Sure--_nothing_--Frank," he said, and his watery eyes were bland.

The old codger understood. Neither of them said anything for a minute,
while the rest of the Bunch, except Eileen who was still typing, guzzled
Pepsi and beer, and wolfed hotdogs. There was lots of courage-lifting
noise and laughter.

Ramos said something, and Jig Hollins answered him back. "Think there'll
be any girls in grass skirts out in the Asteroid Belt, Mex?"

"Oh, they'll arrive," Ramos assured him.

Nelsen didn't listen anymore. His and Paul's attention had wandered to
the larges