Ted said, "I'll be damned."
"You're all damned," the voice said, "damned by your loyalties. Clean living is killing you. But you can dream."
Ted looked at the squirrel, who was looking at him. Ted sat down again in the deck chair. He asked, "What good's a dream?"
"What good's reality?" No movement of the squirrel's mouth, but a certain intentness in its gaze. "And how can you tell which is the dream? How will you ever know? How much do you know, anyway?"
"More than a squirrel. You don't even know how far it is from home plate to first base."
"Ninety feet. How far is it to Mars, Brain?"
"Thirty-five million miles—and more."
A silence. The squirrel walked around the base of the tree and came into view on the other side. It moved cautiously toward the porch, its bushy tail alert as a guidon. About halfway between the porch and the tree, it paused, sitting up on its haunches.
"Thirty-five million miles to Mars. Close your eyes, Truesdale!"