Webster was silent and cold — cold with a chill that crept upon him from some unguessed place. Cold that sent perspiration out upon his forehead, that knotted his fists.
"If you start immediately," said Clayborn, "you can be here on time. I've already arranged with the World Committee to have a ship at your disposal instantly. The utmost speed is necessary."
"But," said Webster, "but… I cannot come."
"You can't come!"
"It's impossible," said Webster. "I doubt in any case that I am needed. Surely, you yourself-"
"I can't," said Clayborne. "No one can but you. No one else has the knowledge. You hold Juwain's life in your hands. If you come, he lives. If you don't, he dies."
"I can't go into space," said Webster.
"Anyone can go into space," snapped Clayborne. "It's not like it used to be. Conditioning of any sort desired is available."
"But you don't understand," pleaded Webster. "You-"
"No, I don't," said Clayborne. "Frankly, I don't. That anyone should refuse to save the life of his friend-"
The two men stared at one another for a long moment, neither speaking.
"I shall tell the committee to send the ship straight to your home," said Clayborne finally. "I hope by that time you will see your way clear to come."
Clayborne faded and the wall came into view again — the wall and books, the fireplace and the paintings, the well-loved furniture, the promise of spring that came through the open window.
Webster sat frozen in his chair, staring at the wall in front of him.
Juwain, the furry, wrinkled face, the sibilant whisper, the friendliness and understanding that was his. Juwain, grasping the stuff that dreams are made of and shaping them into logic, into rules of life and conduct. Juwain using philosophy as a tool, as a science, as a stepping stone to better living.
Webster dropped his face into his hands and fought the agony that welled up within him.
Clayborne had not understood. One could not expect him to understand since there was no way for him to know. And even knowing, would he understand? Even he, Webster, would not have understood it in someone else until he bad discovered it in himself — the terrible fear of leaving his own fire, his own land, his own possessions, the little symbolisms that he had erected. And yet, not he, himself; alone, but those other Websters as well. Starting with the first John J. Men and women who had setup a cult of life, a tradition of behaviour.
He, Jerome A. Webster, had gone to Mars when he was a young man, and had not felt or suspected the psychological poison that ran through his veins. Even as Thomas a few months ago had gone to Mars. But thirty years of quiet life here in the retreat that the Websters called a home had brought it forth, had developed it without his even knowing it. There had, in fact, been no opportunity to know it. It was clear how it had developed — clear as crystal now.
Habit and mental pattern and a happiness association with certain things — things that had no actual value in themselves, but had been assigned a value, a definite, concrete value by one family through five generations.
No wonder other places seemed alien, no wonder other horizons held a hint of horror in their sweep.
And there was nothing one could do about it — nothing, that is, unless one cut down every tree and burned the house and changed the course of waterways. Even that might not do it — even that The televisor purred and Webster lifted his head from his hands, reached out and thumbed the tumbler.
The room became a flare of white, but there was no image.
A voice said: "Secret call. Secret call."
Webster slid back a panel in the machine, spun a pair of dials, heard the hum of power surge into a screen that blocked out the room.
"Secrecy established," he said.
The white flare snapped out and a man sat across the desk from him. A man be had seen many times before in televised addresses, in his daily paper.
Henderson, president of the World Committee.
"I have had a call from Clayborne," said Henderson.
Webster nodded without speaking. "He tells me you refuse to go to Mars."
"I have not refused," said Webster. "When Clayborne cut off the question was left open. I had told him it was impossible for me to go, but he had rejected that, did not seem to understand."
"Webster, you must go," said Henderson. "You are the only man with the necessary knowledge of the Martian brain to perform this operation, if it were a simple operation, perhaps someone else could do it. But not one such as this."
"That may be true," said Webster, "but-"
"It's not just a question of saving a life", said Henderson. "Even the life of so distinguished a personage as Juwain. It involves even more than that. Juwain is a friend of yours. Perhaps he hinted of something he has found."
"Yes," said Webster. "Yes, he did. A new concept of philosophy."
"A concept," declared Henderson, "that we cannot do without. A concept that will remake the solar system, that will put mankind ahead a hundred thousand years in the space of two generations. A new direction of purpose that will aim towards a goal we heretofore bad not suspected, bad not even known existed A brand new truth, you see. One that never before had occurred to anyone."
Webster's hands gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles stood out white.
"If Juwain dies," said Henderson, "that concept dies with him. May be lost forever."
"I'll try," said Webster. "I'll try-"
Henderson's eyes were hard. "Is that the best that you can do?"
"That is the best," said Webster.
"But man, you must have a reason! Some explanation."
"None," said Webster, "that I would care to give."
Deliberately he reached out and flipped up the switch.
***
Webster sat at the desk and held his hands in front of him, staring at them. Hands that had skill, held knowledge. Hands that could save a life if he could get them to Mars. Hands that could save for the solar system, for mankind, for the Martians an idea — a new idea — that would advance them a hundred thousand years in the next two generations.
But hands chained by a phobia that grew out of this quiet life. Decadence — a strangely beautiful — and deadly — decadence.
Man had forsaken the teeming cities, the huddling places, two hundred years ago. He had done with the old foes and the ancient fears that kept him around the common camp fire, had left behind the hobgoblins that had walked with him from the caves.
And yet and yet Here was another huddling place. Not a huddling place for one's body, but one's mind. A psychological campfire that still held a man within the circle of its light.
Still, Webster knew, he must leave that fire. As the men had done with the cities two centuries before, he must walk off and leave it. And he must not look back.
He had to go to Mars — or at least start for Mars. There was no question there, at all. He had to go.
Whether he would survive the trip, whether he could perform the operation once he had arrived, he did not know. He wondered vaguely, whether agoraphobia could be fatal. In its most exaggerated form, he supposed it could.
He reached out a hand to ring, then hesitated. No use having Jenkins pack. He would do it himself — something to keep him busy until the ship arrived.
From the top shelf of the wardrobe in the bedroom, he took down a bag and saw that it was dusty. He blew on it, but the dust still clung. It had been there for too many years.
As he packed, the room argued with him, talked in that mute tongue with which inanimate but familiar things may converse with a man.
"You can't go," said the room. "You can't go off and leave me."
And Webster argued back, half pleading, half explanatory. "I have to go. Can't you understand? It's a friend, an old friend. I will be coming back."