The photograph and the moon-stone were in his hands. He was thrusting them forward.
"This is my proof," he mumbled automatically.
For a long time his surroundings were like the terrain in a dimly remembered dream. Then hands helped him into a chair.
A deep voice grunted at him. "Okay, proof of what?"
Jeffrey blinked. His brain fought to break through the wall of weariness that enclosed it. He saw that the man before him was middle-aged, balding, small-eyed. His trace of a smile was not unpleasant.
"What's it all about, fellow?" the man asked, leaning back in his chair.
Thank you, God, thought Jeffrey, that I have another chance.
He began again. 1957, the H-bomb, Project Pandora. Lord, if he could only show this man the images that still hung in his memory!
But how could you capture the dizzying blackness of space, the hypnotic silver of stars, and recreate their magic in mere words? How feeble were words. They were like broken fingers trying to carry sand.
Nevertheless, the man listened. Jeffrey came to the words, "So the moon it was!" And even then the man said nothing. Jeffrey went on: