"Yes, Wendy, we've won," Mr. Fishdollar said slowly.
She pressed closer and he hugged her convulsively.
"Let's celebrate tonight," she cried. "A Thanksgiving—"
"All right, but let me go now, sweetheart. I need to think." He hugged her convulsively again and released himself.
Alone on the headland, he looked out over the sea for a long time. He took off his blue and gold tunic, folded it neatly, and thrust it deep into a crevice of the rock. The day was gray-chilly and he shivered in his undershirt.
Evening drew on, red-gray over the water. He stood very erect with his chin up. He heard the signal gun and then the roar as Carlyle lifted out, and his chin rose higher. Finally thoughts began coming through the hurt. Thoughts were still to be had for the thinking.
President-consort Fishdollar walked through ghostly, tentative snowflakes toward the settlement on the lonely outpost planet ... standing like a great rock in the way of the aliens ... or in the way of the sickly pale cast of conscious thinking ... aliens both, to the unsearchable mind of the species ... aliens, then, war or negotiation ... President Fishdollar down with nervous strain ... the First Gentleman in de facto control ... triumph ... reception at Prime Reference ... medal of honor....
With a spring in his step and warmth inside him, Stephen Fishdollar came home.