"Wait!" It was a cry of anguish from Jim. He broke the cigarette in sudden frustration and threw it in an ashtray. "The museum, Pete," he pleaded. "Think what it would mean. Pictures, specimens, voice recordings. And not only from historical places, but Star men, Pete. Star men! Wouldn't it be all right for them to go places they know are safe? I wouldn't ask them to take risks, but—"
"No, Jim," I said regretfully. "It's your museum, but this is my daughter."
"Sure," he breathed. "I guess I'd feel the same way."
I turned back to the youngsters.
"Star, Robert," I said to them both, "I want your promise that you will not leave this time, until I let you. Now I couldn't punish you if you broke your promise, because I couldn't follow you. But I want your promise on your word of honor you won't leave this time."
"We promise." They each held up a hand, as if swearing in court. "No more leaving this time."
I let the kids go back outside into the yard. Jim and I looked at one another for a long while, breathing hard enough to have been running.
"I'm sorry," I said at last.
"I know," he answered. "So am I. But I don't blame you. I simply forgot, for a moment, how much a daughter could mean to a man." He was silent, and then added, with the humorous quirk back at the corner of his lips, "I can just see myself reporting this interview to the museum."
"You don't intend to, do you?" I asked, alarmed.