t after all our
years of working and saving and planning for the future. Not go back.
Not even next year. Stay here, because we were old and frail and the
ships wouldn't be bothered with us anyway.

Martha.... How could I tell her? How could I say, "We can't go home,
Martha. They won't let us."

I couldn't say it. There had to be some other way.

"Pardon me," I said to the clerk, "but who should I see about getting
a visa?"

He swept the stack of papers away with an impatient gesture and
frowned up at me.

"Over at the colonial office, I suppose," he said. "But it won't do
you any good."

I could read in his eyes what he thought of me. Of me and all the
other farmers who lived in the outlying districts and raised crops and
seldom came to the city. My clothes were old and provincial and out of
style, and so was I, to him.

"I'll try it anyway," I said.

He started to say something, then bit it back and looked away from me
again. I was keeping him from his work. I was just a rude old man
interfering with the operation of the spaceways.

Slowly I let go of the desk and turned to leave. It was hard to walk.
My knees were trembling, and my whole body shook. It was all I could
do not to cry. It angered me, the quavering in my voice and the
weakness in my legs.

I went out into the hall and looked for the directory that would point
the way to the colonial office. It wasn't far off.

I walked out onto the edge of the field and past the Earth rocket, its
silver nose pointed up at the sky. I couldn't bear to look at it for
longer than a minute.

It was only a few hundred yards to the colonial office, but it seemed
like miles.

* * * * *

This office was larger than the other, and much more comfortable. The
man seated behind the desk seemed friendlier too.

"May I help you?" he asked.

"Yes," I said slowly. "The man at the ticket office told me to come
here. I wanted to see about getting a permit to go back to Earth...."

His smile faded. "For yourself?"

"Yes," I said woodenly. "For myself and my wife."

"Well, Mr...."

"Farwell. Lewis Farwell."

"My name's Duane. Please sit down, won't you?... How old are you, Mr.
Farwell?"

"Eighty-seven," I said. "In Earth years."

He frowned. "The regulations say no space travel for people past
seventy, except in certain special cases...."

I looked down at my hands. They were shaking badly. I knew he could
see them shake, and