"Today is your last chance. Not tomorrow or the next day. It has to be today."
The thump-thump of a base drum was like a gigantic heart-beat shaking all the land. The blare of trumpets was a victory song, strong enough to live in the mind of a man forever, strong enough to silence forever the voices of fear and loneliness that might haunt a spaceman.
"That's the music," Jeffrey Simon muttered, "that should have been yours."
A crimson-lettered banner said: EVERSON—THE FIRST.
What a mockery those words were! It was like worshiping an evil, false-faced goddess. The illusion should and must be destroyed.
He jerked erect. He must move quickly. He must put an end to this cosmic lie.
He dressed in a freshly-cleaned, single-breasted tweed suit. His tie was hastily knotted. There was no time for breakfast.
He strode to a drawer of his bureau, yanked it open, dug away a layer of under-clothing. He smiled as he beheld two objects.
His hands moved gently. His hands were like those of a florist arranging a garland of delicate blossoms. They were like the hands of a surgeon fearful of a fatal error. They were like the hands of a father upon his first-born.
He picked up the stone.