Silence then. Except for the eternal wind and its companion, the dust.
"I disassembled my atoms," the explanation echoed unexpectedly in Lawrence's mind, "and selected a lonely place on another world where they were reassembled. I watched from afar, and there, too, it was the same. The machines. The uncertain, hurt look in people's eyes, and—their lack of purpose.
"I destroyed my machine and myself with it. That was best. There was nothing left for me, you see."
Lawrence stood up by the dusty televisor against the wall. There was infinite compassion and understanding in his voice. He said, "If only you had waited! If only you had known that another planet in another system had a place for us, instead of going elsewhere as you did—without thought or direction."
"There was thought and direction," said the mental voice. "It availed me nothing. Bury me, please, out there on the desert with the wind and sand. I would be with seekers like myself, knowing that their search is impotent, as was mine. Thank you for your good intentions and your kindness. Good-by, my friend."
The sense of rapport faded from Lawrence's brain, and he knew he was in the presence of death. The requiem of the wind sang for another lost thing now, and that was queerly fitting, somehow.
Then he knew! Knew that the being had indeed traveled to other than the little man's star system, and his heart cried out within him unbearably, though he stood still and numb. Knew it when he had picked up the other's hand to place it beneath the covering and had felt—three slender fingers.
The quest was ended.