up die canal.

They passed the poet a mile further on, walking along the rim of the canal. He waved them on. “No. No, thanks. I feel like walking. It’s a fine day. Goodbye. Go on.”

The towns lay ahead. Small towns. Small enough to be run by men instead of running them. He heard the brass music. He saw the neon lights at dusk. He made out the junkyards in the fresh night under tire stars.

Beyond the towns stood the silver rockets, tall, waiting to be fired off and away toward the wilderness of stars.

“Real,” whispered the rockets, “real stuff. Real travel. Real time. Real space. No gifts. Nothing free. Just a lot of good hard work.”

The yacht touched into its home dock.

“Rockets, by God,” he murmured. “Wait till I get my hands on you.”

He ran away in the night, to do just that.

The End