"Well, ah," I said. "There is a little something. Let me take the lifeboat, and stock it with a few goodies from the library, and some of those marbles from the storeroom, and a couple of the smaller mechanical gadgets. I think I know how to merchandise them in a way that'll leave the economy on an even keel—and incidentally set me up for life. As you said, I'm a materialist."
"As you wish," Foster said. "Take whatever you desire."
"One thing I'll have to do when I get back," I said, "is open the tunnel at Stonehenge enough to sneak a thermite bomb down it—if they haven't already found the beacon station."
"As I judge the temper of the local people," Foster said, "the secret is safe for at least three generations."
"I'll bring the boat down in a blind spot where radar won't pick it up," I said. "Our timing was good; in another few years, it wouldn't have been possible."
"And this ship would soon have been discovered," Foster said. "In spite of radar-negative screens."
I looked at the great smooth sphere hanging, haloed, against utter black. The Pacific Ocean threw back a brilliant image of the sun.
"I think I see an island down there that will fill the bill perfectly," I said. "And if it doesn't, there are a million more to choose from."
"You've changed, Legion," Foster said. "You sound like a man with a fair share of joie de vivre."
"I used to think I was a guy who never got the breaks," I said. "There's something about standing here looking at the world that makes that kind of thinking sound pretty dumb. There's everything down there a man needs to make his own breaks—even without a stock of trade goods."