Three humans dead fifty light-years distant and it became a thing of great importance to a man sitting on his patio on Earth. A thing of prime importance for no human must die by other hands than human without a terrible vengeance. Human life must not be taken without a monstrous price anywhere in the galaxy or the human race would end forever and the great galactic brotherhood of intelligence would plummet down into the darkness and the distance that had scattered it before.
Adams slumped lower in his chair, forcing himself to relax, furious at himself for thinking…for it was his rule that in this time of twilight he thought of nothing…or as close to nothing as his mind could come.
The stranger's voice seemed to come from far away and yet Adams knew he was sitting at his side.
"Nice evening," the stranger said.
Adams chuckled. "The evenings are always nice. The Weather boys don't let it rain until later on, when everyone's asleep."
In a thicket down the hill a thrush struck up its evensong and the liquid notes ran like a quieting hand across a drowsing world. Along the creek a frog or two were trying out their throats. Far away, in some dim other-world a whipporwill began his chugging question. Across the meadow and up the climbing hills, the lights came on in houses here and there.
"This is the best part of the day," said Adams.
He dropped his hand into his pocket, brought out tobacco pouch and pipe.
"Smoke?" he asked.
The stranger shook his head.