Fred was aware of an urgent knocking at the door. He opened it, found Jo leaning weakly against the frame.
"Fred," the girl spoke slowly, "help me ... the nightmare's back ... help all of us." She was crying, and her eyes were caves of dark terror. He held her tightly, and she sagged against him. "I can't hold out ... the others have gone under ... a miracle, Fred—"
I'll take this one now; I am strong enough.
"... need a mir—" Jo stiffened, spoke firmly. "I'm going back to my friends. If you're silly enough not to want New Earth, I can't help you." She left, striding purposefully.
"Damn you. Damn you!" Fred's voice was hard, cold. Man, the artist, and man, the hunter, stood helpless before this power. But man, the toolmaker—he bent his environment. That was it! The different faces of man, the ambivalent. That was it! The pieces were in place.
"Earth!" he called piercingly. "Earth, you are one like this other planet. Help us!"
Stop! The hated sound beat at him.
And then he heard a new voice, an aged crone: Can't. Too old.
"This new one will take us from you," Fred went on, "just as you took us from Alpha Centauri IV. Help us now."
Can't. It would mean my death. All my reserves of life force.