"I am unhappy with you, Cliff," Commander Spliid said with chilly formality. Rowley leaned back in his chair in Spliid's office aboard the Survey ship. Spliid laid his pipe in the tray on his desk. He said, "What happened to your daily reports?"
Rowley stuffed his own pipe, lit it.
"I thought you knew. I didn't make any."
Spliid's look of exasperation wavered and dimmed through the swirls of blue smoke. It was all over now, and Rowley felt no sense of hurry. Hume was a pinpoint of light in the star-carpeted vestibules of space behind them. In another hour, they would shift into overdrive. Hume would vanish from their lives forever.
"I assume," he said, "that Hume is now officially closed."
Spliid nodded. He fixed questioning gray eyes on Rowley.
"Good," said Rowley. "That's the way it will always be."
"Always?" Spliid fumbled with his pipe. "For our life-times, maybe...."
"Always," Rowley repeated. He drew on his pipe, enjoying the luxury of keeping the Commander's curiosity at bay. "Human beings have no place on Hume. I found that out the day after you dropped in on me. That's why I made no reports. I just sat around, waiting for the pilot boat."
Spliid held a lighter to the dark-stained bowl of his pipe.