alive now knew who that boy had been. Not even the all
knowing Patrol. Not even Venusian Yarol, who had been his closest friend
for so many riotous years. No one would ever know--now. Not his name
(which had not always been Smith) or his native land or the home that
had bred him, or the first violent deed that had sent him down the
devious paths which led here--here to the clover hollow in the hills of
an Earth that had forbidden him ever to set foot again upon her soil.

He unclasped the hands behind his head and rolled over to lay a scarred
cheek on his arm, smiling to himself. Well, here was Earth beneath him.
No longer a green star high in alien skies, but warm soil, new clover so
near his face he could see all the little stems and trefoil leaves,
moist earth granular at their roots. An ant ran by with waving antennae
close beside his cheek. He closed his eyes and drew another deep breath.
Better not even look; better to lie here like an animal, absorbing the
sun and the feel of Earth blindly, wordlessly.

* * * * *

Now he was not Northwest Smith, scarred outlaw of the spaceways. Now he
was a boy again with all his life before him. There would be a
white-columned house just over the hill, with shaded porches and white
curtains blowing in the breeze and the sound of sweet, familiar voices
indoors. There would be a girl with hair like poured honey hesitating
just inside the door, lifting her eyes to him. Tears in the eyes. He lay
very still, remembering.

Curious how vividly it all came back, though the house had been ashes
for nearly twenty years, and the girl--the girl ...

He rolled over violently, opening his eyes. No use remembering her.
There had been that fatal flaw in him from the very first, he knew now.
If he were the boy again knowing all he knew today, still the flaw would
be there and sooner or later the same thing must have happened that had
happened twenty years ago. He had been born for a wilder age, when men
took what they wanted and held what they could without respect for law.
Obedience was not in him, and so--

As vividly as on that day it happened he felt the same old surge of
anger and despair twenty years old now, felt the ray-gun bucking hard
against his unaccustomed fist, heard the hiss of its deadly charge
ravening into a face he hated. He could not be sorry, even now, for that
first man he had killed. But in the smoke of that killing had gone up
the colu