They started into the valley.
Two hours later they stopped to rest. They stopped on a patch of rich, green turf in the shadow of a broad-leaf tree. The spaceport, flanked by its low-slung buildings was still visible, but from seven miles away the buildings looked incredibly tiny. Like miniatures out of a Christmas kit. But the thing that impressed them most was the quiet—a strange sort of quiet, free of the whir of copter blades, land-car horns, and other nerve-shattering noises. Instead, there was only the rustle of a mild breeze through the tree branches, and the sound of their own breathing.
Marshall lay on his back, his fingers laced behind his neck.
"I feel rested, Joan," he said. "We've just walked seven miles, but I feel rested."
"I know, Claude. I feel the same way. It must be the air. The air feels different."
"Wouldn't it be nice if it'd always stay this way. Fresh and unspoiled, I mean. I know it won't, but wouldn't it be nice if it did."
"It will, Claude. It will for as long as we live anyhow, and for as long as Billy lives. That's what's important. We're very lucky, Claude."
"I can't help thinking of the people back on Earth. I feel sorry for them."
"They could do what we did. They could take the tests."
"I know. But even if they did, what would they have? Who'd want to homestead the other side of this planet? Who'd want to live out there anyway?"