But there was a line…a line he had never crossed, either through innate decency or a fear of being apprehended. He could not decide quite which.
The road was a dusty strip of white that ran along the ridge, twisting between the deep bowls of darkness where the land fell away into deep hollows. Sutton walked slowly, footfalls muffled by the dust. The land was black and the road was white and the stars were large and soft in the summer night. So different, Sutton thought, from the winter stars. In the winter the stars retreated high into the sky and glowed with a hard and steely light.
Peace and quiet, he told himself. In this corner of the ancient Earth there is peace and quiet, unbroken by the turbulence of twentieth-century living.
From a land like this came the steady men, the men who in a few more generations would ride the ships out to the stars. Here, in the quiet corners of the world, were built the stamina and courage, the depth of character and the deep convictions that would take the engines that more brilliant, less stable men had dreamed and drive them to the farthest rims of the galaxy, there to hold key worlds for the glory and the profit of the race.
The profit, Sutton said.
Ten years, he thought, and the involuntary compact with time has been consummated…each condition filled. I am free to go, to go anywhere, any time I choose.
But there was no place to go and no way to get there.
I would like to stay, said Sutton. It is pleasant here.
"Johnny," he said. "Johnny, what are we going to do?"
He felt the stir in his mind, the old dog stir, the wagging tail, the comfort of blankets tucked about a child in his trundle bed.