The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, but now he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown between them. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown. She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look at because she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and only what was.
He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships instead of four.
There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building, and the other buildings. He looked up.
There was no mountain.
For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now, and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it again.
"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through that thick poetic head of yours!"
"Get what?" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he wasn't quite sure yet.
"Smoke?" she said.