Nor, to any except a tiny fraction of Earth’s inhabitants, was the question of loose atomic vortices a matter of concern. It was unthinkable that Tellus, the point of origin and the very center of Galactic Civilization, could cease to exist. Long before such vortices could eat away much of her mass, or poison much of her atmosphere, Earth’s scientists would have solved the problem.
But to Neal Cloud the accident was ultimate catastrophe. His personal universe had crashed in ruins; what was left was not worth picking up. He and Jo had been married for more than fifteen years and the bonds between them had grown stronger, deeper, truer with every passing day. And the kids . . . it couldn’t have happened . . . fate COULDN’T do this to him . . . but it had . . . it could. Gone . . . gone . . . GONE!
And to Neal Cloud, sitting there at his desk in black abstraction, with maggots of thought gnawing holes in his mind, the catastrophe was doubly galling because of its cruel irony. For he was second from the top in the Vortex Control Laboratory; his life’s work had been a search for a means or method of extinguishing loose atomic vortices.
His eyes focused vaguely upon the portrait. Wavy brown hair . . . clear, honest gray eyes . . . lines of character, of strength and of humor . . . sweetly curved lips, ready to smile or to kiss. . . .
He wrenched his attention away and scribbled briefly upon a sheet of paper. Then, getting up stiffly, he took the portrait and moved woodenly across the room to a furnace. After the flaming arc had done its work he turned and handed the paper to a tall man, with a Lens glowing upon his wrist, who had been watching him with quiet, understanding eyes. Significant enough, to the initiate, of the importance of the laboratory is the fact that it was headed by a Lensman.
“As of now, Phil, if it’s QX with you.”
The Lensman took the document, glanced at it, and slowly, meticulously, tore it into sixteen equal pieces.
“Uh-uh, Storm,” he denied, gently. “Not a resignation. Leave of absence, perhaps, but not severance.”
“Why not?” It was scarcely a question; Cloud’s voice was level, uninflected. “I wouldn’t be worth the paper I’d waste.”
“Now, no; but the future’s another matter. I haven’t said anything so far, because I knew you and Jo. Nothing could be said.” Two hands gripped and held. “For the future, though, four words that were spoken long ago have never been improved upon. ‘This, too, shall pass’.”