Alice said, "Yes," a trifle uncertainly.
"All right, imagine a man stranded in a universe full of savages—pleasant harmless savages, maybe, but people who are three million years away from his culture. What's he going to do?"
"Go native," said Alice, "or comb beaches."
"That's right," Maxwell told her. "His only two alternatives. And either one is about as bad as the other, from his point of view. Conform to native customs, settle down, marry, lose everything that makes him a civilized man—or just simply go to hell by himself."
"That's what he's doing?"
"Right."
"Well, but what is he combing those beaches for?"
Maxwell frowned. "Don't be a cretin. These particular beaches have nothing to do with it; he just happens to be on one at the moment. He's a beachcomber because he lives like a bum—doesn't do any work, doesn't see people, just loafs and waits to be old enough to die."
"That's awful," said Alice. "It's—such a waste."
"In more ways than one," Maxwell added drily. "But what do you want? There's only one place he could be happy—three million years from now—and he can't go back. He says there isn't any place to go back to. I don't know what he means; he refuses to clarify that point."