Six years of heartrending disappointments as he searched tirelessly for the precious Roxite—and found only a little.
But this was the end. He was going to make a last desperate attempt to find his way back. Back to a cold, hostile, unfriendly civilization that might, out of charity, provide some lowly position for him—let him work enough to stay alive.
Still, that was better than this. At least he could look up into the blue ceiling of the sky. Tread over green carpeted fields. Eat real, substantial, solid food and see other people.
Yes, of a poor choice that alternative was the best.
But here he was bitter again. Deluging himself with waves of self-pity. The fault was not entirely with Earth and the way of life on Earth. He was equally to blame. He was a throw-back. A throw-back to the days when men pushed back new frontiers, blazed new trails for civilization to follow. When brawn had been the equal, if not the superior of brains. But this was a new world. It was built for the many, not the few. Simply because there was a few thousand of misfits among a population of millions was no creditable reason for revamping an entire way of life to the satisfaction of a minor group of disgruntled men. No, progress was relentless, inevitable. The old must bow before the new, and the world must fight on toward its distant dream of tomorrow.
Funny how a man could become so completely lost. But he had plenty of time to look for the right avenue back to his world. Plenty of time, patience, fuel and food. And he would find it—though it take him the rest of his life.
So Michel Drawers roared away from a tiny, lonely little rock in a strange distant universe, and, with his seemingly inexhaustible patience explored the sky ways for the section of the milky way in which his solar system might be located.
And as the months passed his homesickness grew and grew and reached unbearable proportions. A subconscious chant repeated itself and reiterated in pounding rhythms within his brain. He must find a way back, a way back, a way back, a way back, a way back. God! he couldn't stand this any longer. Where was the way back? Merciful heavens, how much more of this torture could he endure without going mad? And the distant pin-points of light mocked him with cold ferocity. Gloated with aloof disdain. Laughed at his fruitless efforts to escape their mighty trap.
But the soul of the frontiersman, the conqueror, burnt on. Michel Drawers did not go mad. He simply went on and on and on. Searching, seeking the way back.
Then, when it seemed that interminable eons had fled past he was awakened from a sleeping period by the piercing, raucous scream of the Roxitometer, pleading to him to arise and investigate its latest discoveries before they flashed past and it was too late.